


A Field Guide To Getting Lost

by Angeline Farewell (Neve83)



Category: Australian Actor RPF, British Actor RPF, Thor (Movies) RPF, hiddlesworth - Fandom
Genre: Canon Divergence - Pre-Thor (2011), F/M, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, M/M, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-23
Updated: 2017-07-29
Packaged: 2018-09-19 12:42:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 44,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9440900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neve83/pseuds/Angeline%20Farewell
Summary: Life is an endless kaleidoscope of events and people that could cross your path at any point without warning.Chris Hemsworth is a young Australian actor who’s trying to hit big in the business, filming his new movie in London.Tom Hiddleston is an English actor who’s trying his best to do the same.It’s 2008, “Thor”, is a far thing for them both, a great opportunity for them both: what if they’d not met for the first time after the castings, but sooner; what if they’d to prove for the same role when their friendship had already trespassed a certain line?"There was a naked young man in the house. With his mother.Or rather, the stranger´s bare back was the first thing Tom noticed, but it was the only real nudity, as the young man at least had his pants on. And shoes. He didn’t know what was so important about the shoes, but Tom felt oddly relieved."Honey, you're here!"Tom's mother seemed unfazed that his son had just caught her with a naked young man in the living room, and hugged him warmly to welcome him home.Tom couldn’t help but look at the guy who was still naked from the waist up, and was still in his mother's living room without apparent reason."





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [A Field Guide To Getting Lost](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1681331) by [Angeline Farewell (Neve83)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neve83/pseuds/Angeline%20Farewell). 



> Thank you so much to my invaluable English ~~teacher~~ beta, [ pinknoonicorn ](http://pinknoonicorn.tumblr.com) who's helping me doing an actual decent job translating this "old" fic of mine. All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

London was too hot.

Tom never thought he´d say that about his hometown, having been to Italy, France and Portugal so many times, but nearly three months in Sweden had even made him reconsider the odd tendency to haphazardly cover themselves of his countrymen .

It was the middle of July and Gatwick airport swarmed like an anthill. It was late and he’d a headache that couldn’t be attributed to jet lag, or because the sun hadn’t really set behind the horizon for some time: he was back in his hometown, he was home, he should be happy.

He wasn’t.

Because he didn’t have a house in London, not anymore. He’d been forced to end the contract of his old apartment just a little after his departure for Stockholm. The landlord had talked about rent increases, plumbing works, renovations, he didn’t even know the specifics, he only knew that he really couldn’t afford to pay more money at the moment. Not for a tiny condo in that suburb anyway.

He needed to find a place to stay, as soon as possible.

Emma's house wasn’t an option, not since she shared the rent with Fred, who was studying to be a photographer who had a crush on him that bordered on fixation. He was a good kid, but he wasn’t his type and he seemed unwilling to understand that heterosexuality is not such a bad thing, just like its opposite. So, no to Emma's apartment.

Sarah was living in Mumbai for a couple of years, and she didn’t seem willing to come back home soon and Tom  wouldn’t go to his father’s even if he’d lived in London and not in Oxford.

The conveyor belt was finally moving, noisily carrying the first of the bags, and he had obviously been pushed aside by the usual latecomer who pretended to see his suitcase instantly.

He sighed deeply and mentally hummed a silly little tune to calm himself. He was tired too, he wanted his luggage, he also wanted to get back to the house he didn’t have.  Not even the second push was enough to get off his face the mask of obtuse indifference that he’d perfected at Eton.

His luggage was still nowhere to be seen.

Something had started vibrating in his pants pocket, and for a moment he’d been  so surprised he’d not known what to do. It was obviously only his cell phone, but his temples throbbed so much that even the stupidest neural connections were slowed down. He didn’t want to answer, but he also knew it was probably his mother.

And she would reprimand him for not calling her when he’d landed, or when he’d left Stockholm. Then she would ask what she could make him for dinner.

It was after ten o'clock pm, and his mother's food was the last thing he wanted to think about. Because he was twenty-seven years old and almost ten years before he’d sworn to himself that he would not look back, that he would never ever have to choose which home to come back to. But he was twenty-seven years old, and had no choice, because he didn’t earn enough to afford a real mortgage, a home and a real life. As his father never failed to remind him.

"Hi Mum, I'm still waiting for my luggage."

"You should have called me before leaving, I was a bit worried."

"It’s not the first time I´ve been abroad, mum."

"You should call all the same. Now I fear the food will be cold when you get home. "

"No matter, it will be a while before I get home anyway."

"You sound strange darling, are you sure you’re okay?"

"Just tired. You know, the flight. I see my bag, I'll call you later. "

Lie. He’d missed his luggage and would have to wait yet another turn of the conveyor. The only consolation was that he was among the few still waiting, no more jostling. However, he’d begun to hum to himself again to create a pleasant sound over those annoying airport ones.

His mother had not remained  in Oxford for long after the divorce, just long enough for Emma to end her preparatory studies for college, and for Sarah to leave for university. Tom was never considered a problem since he was already at Eton when his father had moved to another apartment.

Diana would have wanted to go back to Suffolk, where she grew up, where what remained of her family lived, but she eventually chose to return to Wimbledon, where the first years of marriage were beautiful, and where she would be closer to the West End. With her resume she’d little difficulty in finding a new job she loved and didn’t really need, and then becoming someone else’s Didi.

Tom tried not to think about it, even though he knew it was stupid after so many years: his parents had been divorced for more years than they had been married, it wasn’t so strange that they had decided to rebuild their lives away from each other, white hair or not. They had every right to do so.

A jolt of the carriage had brought him back to the reality of his enormous headache and frustration. There was still half an hour before reaching his stop and the Northern Line was fortunately almost deserted at that hour, he could indulge himself in his thoughts again comfortably on the soft seats and be soothed by the air conditioning which mitigated the seemingly endless heat of the evening.

Tom relived in his mind the latest twelve weeks in Sweden and, indeed, he couldn’t believe his euphoria had subsided so quickly.

 2008 had had a great start and, honestly, he should not complain about the rest so far. Apartment issues aside, of course. But the work had gone well from the beginning, he’d been so good that Branagh had urged him to show up to the audition for a role in his next play, even before seeing him actually on a TV set.

_"I saw Othello, I saw Cymbeline. I don’t need anything else. Why do you think you are playing Martinsson? "_

And in fact he got the part of Lvov without much trouble.

He would still have to go to Emma’s house to get back his car, there was little to do about it, he couldn’t just rely on public transportation to get to the West End since the rehearsals  would probably go on until very late at night: they only had a few months to prepare everything, Branagh had given him barely a week to work off the stress of filming for Wallander, and he’d make the best of that brief time.

Maybe some clouds really do have a silver lining, maybe that week of inactivity at his mother’s home would be useful. He could use a little pampering, to finally be able to eat healthy meals, run a little and then look for another apartment. He’d not seen her for more than three months, did he really dislike the idea of being coddled a bit so much? They could take the opportunity to see some plays or movies, just like when he was a kid, just the two of them.

He mustn´t see everything as so black, he would return to live with his mother only temporarily, only between moving from one house to another, only while he was waiting for the big occasion.

Yes, he needed to be positive.

But he still felt like crying: it's hard to learn that no one keeps their vows, not even the ones we make to ourselves.

It was past eleven o'clock when he found himself in front of the little entrance of his mother´s elegant Victorian detached house, not so unlike the house where he grew up as a child. He’d never really understood why she’d bought such a big house since she lived - in theory - alone, but Diana liked being surrounded by people, she liked to entertain friends and her sister Elizabeth visited her often.

Tom took a minute to catch his breath and place the bag on his shoulder, then he pushed open the little wooden gateway and tiredly walked towards the door, treading across the gravel of the driveway, dragging a large suitcase under a sky lit only by a narrow crescent moon.

He was dead tired for having traveled only a few hundred meters, he really, really needed to go back to more healthy habits, to get in shape. He would think about it the next day, it was late and all he wanted to do was jump in the shower and wash the journey and frustration off before crashing into bed.

He fumbled with the key that his mother had given him for emergencies, even if the lights on the first floor were still on, he’d no desire to ring the bell and bother her at that late hour;  probably she’d fallen asleep on the couch while reading. It would not be the first time, it would not be the last.

Home embraced him with its familiar good smell.

It wasn’t the one in which Tom was raised as a child, but his mother had always been able to transform any home into a warm and cozy nest, despite the increasing size of the houses where they had lived, first at Wimbledon and then at Oxford. His father had always had an obsession with huge houses, huge gardens, enormous educational qualifications. Tom feared and abhorred that exaltation of  grandeur, and had never understand how that fit with the small fundraising soirées for the  Labour Party, to which his parents (as well as the entire maternal family) had never denied support and votes. Or, maybe, _that_ was the point.

Eventually, the party of choice had become the only thing Tom’s parents had in common, except maybe the love for their children, and perhaps even they had not really understand how it had happened.

Tom, of course, had not understood. Sarah, at the time of the divorce, had nearly been fifteen years old and would have liked to have dyed her hair and listened to rock music at full volume, because the deafening silence of that divorce had  made her skin crawl, but she would have risked being thrown out of college and their father would not have screamed at her: he would have just looked at her with disappointment and annoyance.

Tom still perfectly remembered the happy and carefree play that Sarah and Zoe wrote in the late summer of 93, shortly before Tom´s departure for Eton. They were stubbornly resolved to avoid thinking about what everyone knew would happen soon. Tom didn’t participate in the staging, still too angry with his parents who were sending him away, to agree to amuse the adults of the family as they did every summer. Sarah still reproached him playfully for that when they met alone, over a glass of white wine: without rancor, they had long understood that there is never only one way to overcome disappointments. Those created by parents were even more of  a private affair.

Tom left his suitcase at the entrance to avoid damaging the parquet and walked slowly toward the living room. He could hear the strangest noises coming from the room, surely not only the TV, which was actually on even at that late hour.

He heard his mother give directions, giggling, and then another low voice, distinctly masculine, definitely not Brian’s – her mother’s partner - answer her back.

Tom stood in the antechamber, stupidly hesitant as to whether or not to walk through the small corridor that separated him from the dining room. It was obvious his mother had not heard him arrive, and he just didn’t know why he was feeling so hesitant about announcing he was there.

The bag was heavy, but it wasn’t the reason he let it fall with a loud thud on the floor at the entrance to the dining room a few minutes later.

_There was a naked young man in the house. With his mother._

Or rather, the stranger´s bare back was the first thing Tom noticed, but it was the only real nudity, as the young man at least had his pants on. And shoes. He didn’t know what was so important about the shoes, but Tom felt oddly relieved.

"Honey, you're here!"

Tom's mother seemed unfazed that his son had just caught her with a naked young man in the living room, and hugged him warmly to welcome him home.

Tom couldn’t help but look at the guy who was still naked from the waist up, and was still in his mother's living room without apparent reason.

Why there was a naked guy in his mother´s living room so late at night?

The TV had on a late night comedy program that wasn’t that funny at all. Tom didn’t like that the pre-recorded laughter of the show was in the background of a situation where he was the only one finding it embarrassing. The boy  – _intolerably handsome, terribly blond and attractive and young_ \-  was still naked in his mother's living room, when she should have been alone in the house waiting for him.

"Could you put a shirt on, please?"

Was all he managed to rattle out even if he´d wanted to ... well, he didn’t really know what he wanted to do, the very idea of raising his voice seemed useless and ridiculous, and he couldn’t even think of showing his irritation to this stranger, because how could he? It would have been rude, no doubt. His mother would not be happy.

But there was still a naked boy in his mother's living room, he could at least humour him and get dressed.

"Oh, yeah. Excuse me, but it’s so hot I felt like fainting."

And it was true, the living room was boiling, the evening air of July in London was warm and muggy, but at home it was like a furnace.

"A big hornet from the garden came in and stuck itself in the air conditioner, blocking it. Would you believe it? This late at night! Fortunately Chris is good at this sort of thing, aren´t you darling? He saved us from asphyxiation. "

In fact Tom could see not only different tools here and there on the table and on the floor, but also a huge black beast he vaguely recognized as an insect skewered with a screwdriver. Disgusting. Meanwhile _Chris_ had put his shirt back on, thankfully.

"Couldn’t  you open the French window?"

"Honey, there's a hornet's nest somewhere in the garden, and tomorrow I will have to call an exterminator. The doors will remain locked until then, and do not even dare to open the window in your room!"

"I can think of it tomorrow morning, I played with worse things as a kid."

"Oh, don’t be silly, darling, we cannot risk you getting hurt right now. Brian will never forgive me. You're a sweetheart, but you have to look after that pretty face of yours. "

Tom could hardly think over the strange familiarity of that exchange and their conspiratorial giggling, and he didn’t really know why, but it irritated him. A lot. His mother started to fumble with the remote control of the air conditioner and squealed delightedly when a breath of fresh air began to come out easily.

"Splendid. We can sleep peaceful and cool tonight, isn’t that marvelous, Tom? "

Not so much. Tom wasn’t very happy, but he smiled anyway at his mother and smiled back to the not-naked-anymore-boy  that had to look after his pretty face.

"Don’t you want to eat something before going to bed, dear? Chris has made some delicious savory crepes, we  put some aside for you. "

Tom thought his face would stick if he didn’t stop smiling, but he couldn’t stop and he could only hope to look convincing and not appear like a nut job. Chris hadn’t even introduced himself, and his mother took for granted that he would eat his crepes, wonderful.

He just wanted to go to sleep and end this horrible day, waiting for a even more horrible week.


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom doesn't want to be Iago and Chris doesn't sweat. Or where's just some bonding over a jog in the park, that's it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my invaluable English ~~teacher~~ beta, [ pinknoonicorn ](http://pinknoonicorn.tumblr.com). As always, all mistakes are mine and none of what you'll read is her fault. :)

Chris was, _of course_ , an early riser. Tom knew he shouldn’t have been surprised, or feel a strange mixture of annoyance and resentment for a stranger who hadn’t done anything wrong. He felt ashamed  too, but he couldn’t help it, nor put into words those confused and bad feelings he knew he shouldn’t have.

Tom could see him stretching in the garden - _under the sun and, fortunately, dressed_ – through the French window while he sat at the kitchen table, and tried again to wake up completely after a restless  night. He vaguely remembered something about a nest of wasps, or hornets, something with stings, but it seemed like Chris had no problems with dangerous bugs.

"Hello darling, did you sleep well?"

Diana was already fully dressed, including her pearl necklace. Tom felt a bit self-conscious of the baggy sweatpants he wore as pajamas, although he had no reason to: he was in his mother's house, she had seen him in worse states , she had changed his nappies, there was nothing to be ashamed of.

 _Maybe because it was Angela who had changed his nappies and not her_. It was the nasty little voice in his head, the one he hadn’t heard since his second term at Eton, when he began to act to cover it with other voices that  knew nothing about the Hiddlestons.

He tried to sink his face in his cup of coffee and answer Diana’s question with an unintelligible grunt that got him a slightly disappointed gaze. Diana deeply cared about manners, and a pat on his back suggested Tom at least sit straight like a human being.

At twenty-seven you shouldn’t have to worry so much about your parents judgment. But at twenty seven - and this time it was his father talking - a man has usually already established himself and was about to become Somebody. With the capital letter, of course, Tom could always hear the capitals in his father's speeches, Norman was very good at speaking in capitals, he’s a Successful man after all, who had a real job, not someone playing dress-up. Just like Sarah’s boyfriend.

 _Stop_.

He needed to stop, he’s sliding down a slippery path, and he didn’t want to, Yakov was a good guy who was making his sister happy, and didn’t deserve even the reflection of his bitterness. It was not like him, and he didn’t want to become that person.

"Who is this ... Chris?"

Tom was unable to completely avoid a contentious tone, because it’s his mother and he isn’t so good an actor to be able to conceal the annoyance that he doesn’t want to feel: he had hoped for a quiet week, he had hoped to be pampered by his mum, not to have to share his time and his mother with a stranger who had to look after his pretty face.

Diana weighed him with a half knowing smile before pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting down by his side. She also looked at Chris, who was doing his exercises without feeling the heat of July.

"He’s Australian, I suppose twenty-six degrees is not such a high temperature for him. Who knows what he is used to, down there in that beautiful place where he lives. "

"Australian, uhm? And what is he doing here in the old world? "

"Brian entrusted him to my hands. Poor dear, Chris didn’t know anyone here in London and didn’t know how to get around. His agent is looking for a more comfortable accommodation for when they’ll begin filming, but you know how they work at the BBC, as slow as snails. "

"BBC, agent, what are you talking about?"

"He's an actor like you, Tom. He’s here to work. "

An actor. Mr. Pretty Face was an actor, and that was yet another thing that Tom knew he should not be surprised about.

"You could try to make friends with him, take him around the city. You're on vacation, aren’t you?"

"What? But Mum! "

"Come on, be nice, Chris is such a nice young man, I'm sure you’ll like him. You could even rehearse your scripts together, you both begin work next week. "

Tom watched her get up and head for the door to call Chris inside, worried about the hornets’ nest that seemed to be sleeping still, but who knows for how long. She would call the exterminator immediately.

"I've actually already taken care of it, it was easy."

Chris was coming back inside a little sweaty, but not drenched and flushed as Tom had thought (hoped) he would be. He felt petty, but it was not a good time for him, Wallander was not aired yet and he had no idea how he would be received by the TV  audience (not Branagh. No, he knew Ken had been incredible.), Othello was behind him but he was afraid of Ivanov. He’s always afraid before going on stage to rehearse, the very thought was enough to make his stomach turn. After the first lines he would relax a bit, but only after them: he had been delusional to hope to be able to rest, this week would be hell, and shared with a stranger on top of it all.

A stranger that had already solved the problem of the hornets’ nest. Even better, he had already got rid of it, buried it somewhere in the garden as fertilizer, because apparently the insect larvae are good fertilizer for camellias, and the hive was full of maggots, not bugs, so he had never been really in danger of being stung, lucky him.

“I’m sorry, I was so tired yesterday that I didn’t even introduce myself properly. I’m Tom Hiddleston.”

Tom reached out to shake his hand and wore a smile that he hoped would look friendly and convincing, he had put on his best Eton face, the one able to fool everyone of his good intentions, of his docility.

But if Diana had taught him to dance and enjoy the motion, Norman had trained him to march and not show weakness to the enemy: as much as he would’ve liked to forget that part of his education and show his bad mood to this stranger, Tom also knew he would never be able to.

So he smiled more convincingly when Chris had taken his hand, returning his smile, a frank smile, the one of a good boy accustomed to the sun and the ocean, the kind that made you want to return it without reason. One of those Tom knew he wasn’t able to simulate.

Perhaps Tom had withdrawn his hand too quickly, because Chris had seemed perplexed for a moment, but had said nothing. He looked undecided about what to do for a moment, then Tom had seen him just smile and shrug before turning his attention back to Diana and the tea that she was offering him.

Chris looked like a really nice guy, a kind guy, he knew his mother was right, and Tom felt strangely uncomfortable, as it had never happened before with a stranger: he’s used to sharing his space with strangers. Simply, he had never had to share the domestic ones too, to have to share the affection.. It was hard enough with Brian, and he had had more problems than he will ever be willing to admit even to himself when Sarah had accepted Yakov’s proposal. Yeah, because she would settle, she would become an adult and would make Father happy.

And, at that point, Tom was feeling ready to face Iago and spit in his face his unworthiness as the invidious prick.

"It 's such a beautiful day, Tom, don’t tell me you are planning on idling on the couch all day."

"I just want to rest a bit, I just arrived last night. It’s only half past nine in the morning. "

In his current state of mind, Tom could not help but wonder if his mother  was throwing him out, already tired of having him back home, regretting giving up a slice of her newfound independence from  a too old ex-husband and from too young children.

In those moments he missed Grandpa Bill and Grandma Patty even more, refugium peccatorum of a litter of grandchildren that had never really been spoilt, but were trying anyway to find their place in the world away from the large shadows of their parents.

Grandpa Bill would’ve never laughed at his wishes to give up a safe academic career for the smell of the stage, he wouldn’t have mocked his dream with a five-pound bet likely to be lost.

"Do you want to come run with me?"

Chris talked and stopped the inner river of his unutterable – _stupid_ \- recriminations. Tom initially did not realize he was talking to him, but the question left little doubt, for sure Chris wouldn’t have asked a lady of a certain age with a pearl necklace to go jogging.

"Or rather, you wanna take me somewhere jogging. Diana told me that you're a runner too, maybe we could train together. I’m not really sure how to get around here, yet."

He was smiling at him, a little embarrassed, fiddling with the hem of his t-shirt, then he  moved his bangs from his eyes, scratched his cheek, then started playing with his shirt again. How old was he? Tom wasn’t able to tell. Perhaps his age, maybe a few years younger, or older. He’d never been good at judging that sort of thing.

His mother had not said anything, merely raised an eyebrow at him, but Tom pretended not to notice. Diana was right, Chris seemed like a nice guy. He looked like a guy completely left by himself, too, in a strange city: his agent was no better than Tom’s apparently.

His answer came out almost without him realizing it, Tom had smiled and accepted, making himself a little more likeable, and making his mother a little bit happier.

They got out shortly after ten o'clock, Tom pulled out a pair of joggers and a t-shirt from the suitcase and had put on his favorite sneakers. He had left the room in a total mess of clothes and books and scripts and, for a few moments, he had debated with himself whether or not to go downstairs and tell Chris that he was giving up their morning run to tidy up, but then he closed his eyes and walked out from the room blindly closing the door behind him. He needed to go or he would flip out, he would think about the mess later.

He already knew where they would go, he knew London and Wimbledon like the back of his hand. Tom just had to figure out how far he could go, but he imagined a few miles would not be a problem for the Australian guy. It was time to show off his city for the tourist.

They entered Blackshaw Road at moderate speed just a few minutes after leaving home. July in London is always warm and there’s no need to risk collapsing from a heat stroke. Chris followed his pace remaining just a bit behind Tom. Neither of them had spoken, and neither seemed willing to do so.

Tom swerved to the right into the east entrance of Lambeth Cemetery without thinking to warn Chris, who had, however, followed unflinchingly. They had jogged quietly on the dirt paths between the tombstones and marbles full of flowers, the smell of earth and freshly cut grass filled the air and the lungs despite the high and unforgiving sun.

The London summer sky is never really blue. Not like the sky of the Mediterranean countries Tom loved so much without it ever being really reciprocated: he had never been able to catch a bus in Rome and he had always been burned by the Portuguese sun. But he clearly remembered the deep cyan skies in the Algarve, the astounding white of the medieval citadel full of its Islamic past.

Tom ran unhurried but he was already soaked in sweat.  The sedentary life he was forced to lead for months in Sweden was now presenting the bill, he was already beginning to feel the fatigue and they were not even halfway through the route he had imagined. They ran past damaged graves and garishly decorated ones, going past old couples holding hands with a flower in their hands and a thought on their lips, for a relative or a child who died before them. It happened.

Tom liked those old couples, he liked their white hair and their nubby fingers entwined in a tight grasp, free of hypocrisy and appearances: they loved each other and showed it to all, they were not afraid of the judgment or mockery of the young. Tom had never seen his father kiss Diana, not even once.

He wanted to ask Chris what the Australian sky looked like in July when the southern hemisphere welcomes the winter, or what it’s like in the summer, or with Christmas approaching. He wanted to ask, but he couldn’t, because he’s short of breath, and he needed to focus on putting one leg ahead of the other. Chris had slowed down to set a measured pace, and he felt humiliated: he was the one who had chosen the route, he could not give up so soon.

He forced himself to proceed as scheduled without deviations, he got past Merton Road through the first crosswalk available, the sweat had now completely glued his shirt to his skin. How many miles  had they run? Not enough, surely.

"What did you say?"

Chris had caught him off guard in the middle of Replingham Road causing him to lose the rhythm and the beat.

"What?"

"What are you saying? I don’t understand, I can’t hear you. Were you saying something to me?"

If it hadn´t already been so hot Tom would’ve flushed further, so he did the only other thing he could not control when he was embarrassed: he began to laugh like a fool.

"O, That this too too solid flesh would melt / Thaw and resolve itself into a dew! / Or That the Everlasting had not fix'd / His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God! / How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable, / Seem to me all the uses of this world!"

Chris had almost lost the pace himself, had looked puzzled for a moment before forcing a less obtuse expression on his face, less so than the expression he probably had on his.

"Is it your next role? It seems you are already well under way."

"My next - no! I wish it was!"

"What do you mean?"

"That it seems I’m fit enough to wear Romeo’s jeans, but not good enough for Hamlet’s long face. And I hate Romeo."

To that Chris finally stopped, forcing Tom to do the same. He did not even try to hide his perplexity, because okay, he had not recognized Hamlet - _predictable, but he would not tell his mother_ \- but he felt duped and he did not like it. At all.

"It makes no sense."

Tom scratched his head, still embarrassed, and yet he strangely felt more relaxed, more at ease with the route and the conversation.

"Yes, I was rehearsing Hamlet, but just for cadence. It helps me concentrate better, I do it often: I'm the deranged guy in London walking around pretending he's on the phone but actually like speaking in iambic pentameter. Or, as in this case, making a fool of myself. "

They stared at each other in silence for a few seconds, both panting and flushed by the heat and the jog. They burst out laughing at the same time, and in the same instant their shoulders bent in a more relaxed curve, their arms imperceptibly lost rigidity.

It was almost brunch time and some hasty pedestrians passed them without a glance, as they were just two anonymous runners in the London cityscape.

Tom recovered first, and he felt so relaxed he was even able to show weakness.

"I can’t believe we need to run another two miles, I’m beat already."

"If you want we can stop somewhere to rest, we could find a bench."

"No, do not worry, I need to shake this laziness off, I have been inactive for too long. The deer are waiting for us."

"Deer? I thought London was filled with squirrels large as otters, are there deer somewhere?"

"Oh, you'll see. Richmond Park is awaiting us."

Tom started to run again more briskly and light, without waiting for Chris, who was right behind him. And for the first time it felt so right to run in pairs.


	3. Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Tom has a quiet internal crisis over broccolis, and Chris saves the day for everyone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you again to my invaluable English ~~teacher~~ beta, [ pinknoonicorn ](http://pinknoonicorn.tumblr.com). As always, all mistakes are mine and none of what you'll read is her fault. :)

After the ice was broken, talking to Chris was like catching up with an old friend.

So Tom wondered how it was possible that the most relaxed and relaxing morning he had had in months, had been followed by the most embarrassing lunch he had had in… years. Probably years, yes, it had been since that brunch in Paris - _following the half heart attack he almost gave his then girlfriend when he was just trying to make her a romantic surprise_ \- that he hadn’t had to pretend to eat with his stomach twisted in anxiety.

He and Chris cheated a little: they had run all the way to Richmond Park, then covered a large part of the immense extension of the reserve, but they took two tubes to go back home, exhausted from the heat, and frustrated by the lack of deer. The deer were probably hiding in the thick forest that they couldn’t explore, so all they could observe was just footprints and dry piles of shit.

In the end they had walked more than run, they had followed one of the paths that cut through the park and had walked to the Pen Ponds and then toward  Pembroke Lodge to try to find a bit of coolness in the camellia garden. Tom hadn’t stopped talking, or laughing. And Chris had never stopped listening and laughing with him, Tom couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so much at ease with someone he’d just met.

He realized too late that he’d told him embarrassing episodes of his life that probably just his sisters and a few close friends knew, but Chris had replied with equally embarrassing anecdotes, even similar ones, deleting all remaining shyness and even the geographical distance of their families.

Chris was in London for a movie, a horror like any other, and that he hoped would not suck like many others. It had seemed a good script to him, and his agent had encouraged him to try to get a role: he was not the main character, not even a very important one, but it was the first movie with a passable budget in which he managed to get a job. It could have been worse.

Tom knew how he felt, more than he liked to admit.

They had passed time on their way back home by reciting lines from their favorite movies, throwing them back and forth in the almost empty carriage.

"What's the matter with you guys? This was never about the money, this was about us against the system. That system That kills the human spirit. We stand for something. We are here to show guys Those That Are inching Their way on the freeway in Their metal coffins That the human spirit is still alive. "(1)

"Oh, I see, what I should do is, er, come home and say," Hi honey! Guess what? I walked into this house today, where this junkie asshole just fried his baby in a microwave, Because it was crying too loud. So let me share with you That. Come on, let's share That, and in sharing it, we'll somehow, er, cathartically dispel all that heinous shit. " Right? [Pauses] Wrong. "(2)

Heat and Point Break were not exactly easy movies quoted out of context, especially if those who were reciting the worst lines didn’t bother to keep the tone down or avoid menacing inflections. But weren’t actors all like that? A bit crazy, histrionic, with no limits.

Tom quoted Al Pacino dreaming of that immense dwarf’s charisma, as Chris imitated Swayze feeling ocean’s drops on his face. They had different role models, in their own way both unattainable, and they both serenely knew and accepted it.

They were still laughing at some kind of joke - definitely stupid, but who cared? - when Tom had opened the front door. They were hungry and sweaty despite the air conditioning on the tube, but Tom didn’t seem to feel the clammy heat of Chris' hand on his shoulder as they walked down the small entrance hall.

"Look who's back from the far north!"

Emma peeped from the dining room greeting him with a big smile. Tom had forgotten how much he missed his little sister, the  little nosy pest who always niggled about his life and his wardrobe, but that also adored him so much as to never miss one of his plays, and to want to faithfully follow in his footsteps, even challenging the frown of displeasure of their old Scotsman.

"Won’t you greet the little sister that you have not seen or called for weeks? Eww! You're sweaty and stinky, don´t you dare touch me! "

"Hello Emma, I'm happy to see you too. He is - "

"I know who he is. Hello Chris, where did he drag you in this heat? I had forgotten to warn you about the only male and the crazy one of the family, but it's still not too late. "

Chris just laughed with his hand still on Tom’s shoulder, he playfully push Tom towards himself, unconcerned by the heat, and the sweat.

"But - do you know each other?"

"Of course we know each other, I _speak_ with Mum, you know."

"Hey! I was in Sweden, to work! "

Emma had shown him an overview of her long tongue, and for a moment she looked much younger than her twenty-two years. For Tom she would always be the little pest that slipped in his bed during the rare weekend when he came home from Eton. She never went to Sarah’s, because Sarah was the big one, Sarah was Daddy's girl, Emma and Sarah would establish a real relationship just later in their life, when small childhood jealousies had been outdated and ridiculed by life: father had no favorite, father had treated all his children equally - like soldiers.

"I’ve been here for some days, Tom, I’ve got the chance to know part of the family."

Chris smiled at him and gave him a light pat on his shoulder before heading to the kitchen, lured by the delicious smell of freshly cooked food. Tom couldn’t blame him, he was starving too.

"OHMYGOOOODIT’SYOUUUUUU!"

A well-known voice screamed and squeaked in pure delight, a voice that didn’t belong to any member of the Hiddleston’s family.

"Right. Tommy, I forgot to tell you that Freddie is having lunch with us, and he is very happy to see you again. Happier than me. "

And that’s how he found himself going from the most relaxed and relaxing morning he had had in months to a lunch where he just couldn’t help but feel like an intruder.

The fact was Chris was already a famous actor and he hadn’t told him. Well, Tom didn´t recognize him, but Tom didn’t watch television much, especially Down Under´s shows, but Freddie knew him all right and so did Emma, and not just because Diana had already introduced them.

Chris was famous for years and no one had told him, and he’d made a fool of himself. Anyway, Kim was a really stupid name, what were the producers of the series thinking? Someone like Chris couldn’t play somebody with a name so ... silly. There was little to say, it really was a ridiculous name.

But Freddie seemed quite pleased, with both the name and the series, and he’d felt bereft when Chris had left the show to seek his fortune overseas, and was unwavering in highlighting it in colorful ways.

Tom was not envious of that fame. The problem was different and perhaps much more foolish. Because Tom had worked with such famous actors that already had a place in Hollywood and a star on a sidewalk to prove it: he came from Sweden, where he starred opposite Kenneth Branagh and shortly thereafter he would appear opposite him again on the wooden stage of a theater. He’d been the scapegoat for Ewan McGregor’s Iago and someone had even noticed him enough to remember his performance in the articles that followed.

In short, he was even really glad to know Chris was doing fine in the industry, genuinely.

And then again. Why hadn’t he told him? They’d spent the entire morning talking about their careers and wondering about  where they were going, how they were working hard without seeing remarkable results. But Chris _had_ reached some results of his own, and he hadn’t told him. He had let him talk and complain and now he felt stupid once again.

"And the episode where Kim finally makes up with his father and they sing together? I swear, I was soooo moved! "

"Really? That’s a first! We couldn’t help but laugh, I was not able to stay in tune. Ivar (3) was flawless, he covered all my mistakes, without him they would have had to use someone else’s voice! "

And they laughed, they all laughed, repositories of anecdotes and episodes of which he knew nothing.

Freddie was never parted from his Nikon F6 and that day was no exception. He dreamed of becoming a professional photographer and was attending the last year of the photography course at the Ealing College of Art, the same that had seen Freddie’s much more famous namesake among its pupils (4).

Tom was not sure how Emma had met him, but they had ended up sharing the rent for a small apartment in Covent Garden.

Once Emma told him that she was so fond of Freddie because he reminded her of Tom. Tom hadn’t know how to reply to that, because he didn’t want to offend anyone, present or not.. The differences between him and Freddie were not just their sexual orientation, but how to say it without being dismissive, or worse? Better to remain silent and pretend not to see the dazzling white of just all of Freddie outfits. All of them, summer and winter.

He liked to say _White is the new Black_ , but Tom was not so sure. He had lost count of the times Freddie had tried to involve him in unlikely artistic projects: Emma found them fun, even Sarah had got involved on a couple of occasions; but Tom had never liked it, he didn’t like the idea of looking at himself through the eyes of someone who worked with and manipulated life and beauty. And he was so annoyed when he was been told that Freddie wouldn’t try anything on with him, that Freddie was a professional! He knew it, thank you very much, as if that could be the problem.

Even if, considering  how he was squeezing the biceps of his _hero_ , no one would have pegged him as a professional, but more as a fanboy.

"Tom, honey, you do not like the roast beef? Is there too much garlic in the sauce? Pauline always puts too much garlic, I always say that she puts too much garlic everywhere, but she never listens, dear woman, and- "

"Mum calm down. Don’t worry, the roast beef is delicious, the sauce is delicious. I'm eating."

"And the sprouts?"

"The sprouts?"

"You haven’t eaten the sprouts. No veggies, no pudding. "

"No pud- What? But Mum! "

Tom wanted to sink through the floors. He and his mother had always been close, so much that he’d always had to endure the ridicule of the Seavrés Family (5) and of most of the Hiddlestons residing in Scotland. So much that, when he told his father that he wanted to be an actor and not a teacher as everyone seemed to believe, he’d  felt the need to ask him if Diana was the reason behind that folly.

He’d never told that detail to his mother and never would, because if she’d known she would have tried to restrain herself from treating him as a child at times, and Tom would always take the embarrassment from the giggles of his family over the breaking of his mother's heart.

"That’s for you too, young lady."

Emma almost choked on a roast potato.

"But Mom!"

"And also for the young men who don’t share my last name. Clean the dishes, I made lemon curd cake!"

And Tom didn’t know whether to be happy or not when four heads - including his own – bowed down to the plates, bent to obedience by sweets’ call. He had to do his best to not smile too obviously, however, when Chris nudged him under the table with a knee to get his attention, showing him a disgusted and funny look pointing at the broccoli.

"Have you talked to your father, dear?"

Timing had never been Diana’s forte. For example, she married too soon a man into whose life she’d come too late. She had waited too long before realizing that three children didn’t mean a happy marriage and white hair didn’t give stability. Norman was not like her father Bill and she was not like her mother Patricia, they would never die one year apart from each other, as inseparable lovers. Perhaps that was why she was so good at her job of stage manager: driving schedules and tables all set out, the right time is always underlined in red to avoid mistakes.

Tom raised his head as if he’d been stung, mentally rehearsing what he’d done or not done in the last year, frantically thinking of something that he had to reveal and so be judged. But Diana was not looking at him, she was looking at Emma, who had not raised her head, and was looking at her askance. Tom was not happy for the petty relief  he felt because he was not the one who had something to confess to the old man.

Emma would graduate in a few months. She had forced herself to try for a double first that was driving her crazy just for her father’s sake and approval, but once she’d get that piece of paper in the autumn, she wouldn’t continue her studies, and for the same reason as Tom. And that was what she had not told their father yet.

"I talked with you. Is it not enough?"

"Emma ... No, it is not enough. He’s your father and you owe him an explanation."

"Oh, come on, Mum, please. Not now, I'm on vacation. I have until October and we're only in July. Please."

The two women looked at each other across the table, close and distant at the same time. No one spoke, everyone pretended to be extremely interested in the round and disgusting vegetables that they were slowly rolling from side to side on their plate. Emma didn’t want to talk, and Tom couldn’t blame her: he´d already had _that_ talk with their father, and it didn’t go too well. But Diana insisted on considering them a big and serene family despite the divorce. She would like it that her kids would share confidences and decisions with their father too, and she didn’t realize that the scale hung only in her favor when it came to intimacy and confidence.

"Okay, doesn’t matter. You’re an adult and you can decide for yourself. But your father needs to know too, remember that. "

Emma had further lowered her head and gaze, slipping an entire sprout into her mouth, chewing on it as if to punish it for her frustration. She felt embarrassed and it was clear. No one had shown much interest in the conversation between mother and daughter, but knowing that they were listening had been mortifying. Another thing that Tom understood perfectly.

But Diana was accustomed to her huge and happy family who still rode on Suffolk hills, relatives and friends who shared spaces and freedom without problems. The Hiddlestons were not like that, her husband had not been like that, seventeen years had been a long time to figure it out.

"Why can’t you be like all the normal divorced couples and compete for the favors of your children?"

"Because we are reasonable people who preferred raising our children decorously, honey."

 _Decorously_.

 _She_ had raised the kids decently, _she_ had looked after them and pampered and loved and punished and loved them again. But what could be said about their father? What could the three of them say about him? They adored him, that was the truth, so much that they had followed and believed everything he’d ever said, even that you were a failure for getting just a good grade, because an excellent is what makes the difference between brilliance and simple skill.  
It wasn’t his mother’s fault  if he had decided to become an actor, nor for Emma’s dream. It was not her fault because she wasn’t the one who had wanted to spend their father-son afternoons in a sentimental education made of old movies, she wasn’t the one who made him ride into the sun with Peter O'Toole, or pour out his love for those old acrobats who were able to bring mere legends to life.

No, it was not Diana’s fault, but Norman’s, that was what Tom should have replied to his father. That’s why Tom decided to become an actor, had hoped to become Laurence of Arabia to earn a bit of that love and respect that Norman reserved for those celluloid figurines.

But he had never been good at finding the right words with his father, a look was all it took from his father to wipe all Tom’s words away, and sharp and overdue replies were of no use to anyone.

Emma had grumbled chewing on her sprout, but she didn’t say anything else, was not expected to reply.

Perhaps Tom had been staring at his plate for too long not doing anything and unable to control his expression, because it was another nudge under the table to get him back in the kitchen and at the table with the others, but when he looked up Chris had spared him the humiliation of a comforting glance. He acted as if nothing had happened and turned to Diana with his empty plate held high before himself, like a good obedient child.

"Veggies gone. Can we have the cake now? "

And just like that, they could breathe again, unable to resist Chris´s open and childlike smile. They laughed and lifted their plates like little would-be Oliver Twists, but they didn’t want another portion, just a spoonful of sugar to help the bitterness of broccolis and life go down.

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes:**

 

(1)Quote from “Point Break”.

(2)Quote from “Heat”.

(3) Ivar Kants a.k.a Barry Hyde, Chris’s character’s father in Home and Away.

(4)I’m talking about Freddie Mercury, of course. Mercury wore his “white uniform” in art school to differentiate himself from his colourful – and boring, in his opinion – classmates.

(5)Tom’s mother maiden name.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a bit late, my beta is a very busy lady but I coulnd't do sh*t without her. Please be patient, the fic is actually finished, it just needs beta-ing and corrections.


	4. Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom feels like he doesn't deserve anyone - Chris included - and won tons are much needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

"You've got to pose for me, you can’t say no!" Freddie pleaded and pouted.

It hasn’t been easy to go back to a summer afternoon routine, at least not for Tom.

Chris tried to get Tom’s attention and at the same time give enough attention to Freddie, who was a fan and a nice guy.

Freddie was fluttering around Chris like a black-veined white butterfly, all white linen and black hair, and Tom just couldn’t place him: Freddie was gay, but so charismatic that he had all the women he met dropping at his feet anyway.    Perhaps even Emma was a bit in love with him … though Tom decided that this hypothesis was simply ridiculous… not that he was jealous.

"Diana said you have a free week before the shooting, I assure you that it will take a couple of days at most."   Freddie continued pressuring him and it became clear that Chris was feeling uncomfortable.

Tom knew how he felt, he had experienced similar pressures from Freddie at regular intervals.    Tom had never played along because he didn’t want to disappoint Freddie.   He was well aware of his still too boyish face, and his blond curls didn’t help to defuse the effect.   He was twenty-seven years old and the year before he played an eighteen-year old boy without any problem.  Once, definitely intending to flatter him, Freddie had compared him to a Carracci’s angel, and Tom had immediately hated the comparison, because it was a stereotype that he couldn’t seem to shake off himself since both the Dragon School’s days and Eton.  But he hadn’t say anything to Freddie, he just poured himself another drink, smiled and refused for the umpteenth time.

 

Approaching Tom, Chris whispered "If you don’t save me from this second job that I really don’t want, our friendship is over, I'm warning you!"

Tom had almost spilled lemonade on his t-shirt and his mother’s precious sofa, but he recovered at the last moment. Chris had caught him flat footed again and, for a second, Tom had risked to answer him with a “ _what friendship?”_ And that certainly wouldn’t had earned him likeability points. Chris took advantage of Freddie’s temporary absence to join him and sit by his side.

"Please tell me how I can refuse and not be an asshole, I don’t want to pose as an underwear model, I left a safe job in Australia to not have to do it anymore!"

Tom looked at him with his perfectly schooled Eton face on.  Or at least he hoped so, because he was really trying hard to not burst out laughing in front of that concerned, even alarmed expression.

Chris however caught this and rolled his eyes whispering "Stop laughing, you're mean and this is really uncomfortable!"

They started laughing at the same time, aware of the absurdity of the situation, and at that irrational complicity they both felt.

Tom laughed because he couldn’t believe he still managed to get annoyed at such nonsense, and also because he wasn’t used to being called _a friend_ by someone he barely knew, but with Chris he didn’t even have to make an exception, _he just happened_.   Tom laughed because Emma started messing with his hair while sitting next to him, a curious and amused look on her face.  He laughed because Chris was laughing, and his smile was too contagious to not join him. For once in his life he didn’t want to analyze why Chris was laughing, why he seemed to find Tom so likable.

They hardly registered the sudden flash that enlightened them for a second’s fraction. Freddie was holding his camera and had stolen the intimate moment without them noticing.

"No! Come on Freddie, stop it! "

"It 's just a friendly pic! You were so beautiful, the three of you together, I couldn’t help myself."

Chris didn’t comment on the intrusion, just smiled and pretended to not register it for what it was– just like he had surely pretended to not notice Tom’s irritation last evening. He had just got up and asked Freddie if he could see the shot, he even suggested he could shoot a pic himself, so Freddie would have a picture with the siblings.   Freddie looked hesitant for just a moment, then lightened up and instructed him on how to use the camera before launching himself between Tom and Emma, who both glared at him.

When, later in the afternoon, Emma and Freddie decided to go back home, Tom was quite surprised when Chris refused to meet with them again in the evening, and just a little bothered that he had spoken for them both without asking him first. Yet he hadn’t said anything, because it’s true, Tom was tired and didn’t wanted to go out, still in a grip of a vague feeling of frustration that he couldn’t decipher.   So, he stayed quiet, even a little grateful that Chris had settled things for him too.   He usually hated people who tried to impose on him programs and decisions, because he never wanted to be a leader, but he didn’t feel cut out for the role of follower either, and he always shunned that of the outsider.   Tom still didn’t know his role in life which was a problem for him and also the reason behind his Fathers constant reproach.

So, Tom had silenced every remaining complaint and had remained cheerful, bright and talkative. He didn’t even know what he had talked about that evening, but Chris had simply listened to him, he never interrupted and seemed genuinely interested in the minutiae of a life on the border of the Arctic Circle, so far away from his native Australia.

"Tom, darling, Brian will take me out to dinner tonight, so if you don’t want go out I trust that you will not do too much damage to the kitchen!   Pauline is very fussy and I don’t think I could stand to hear her muttering tomorrow."

"Yes, Mum, don’t worry, we won’t blow up anything."

"I do not doubt it” she smirked and then suddenly grasped her forehead, “Argh, what a fool I am, I forgot.   This morning, while you were out with Chris, Charles called. Maybe you should call him back?"

Charles. Tom immediately felt like a tit, he had forgot to call Charlie. Who at that point had every right to move him back from the best friend status to a casual acquaintance one, above all since he’d not bothered to call him from Sweden even once. He needed to call him and make up for it, take him out for a drink, talk about something, talk about anything but their plans for the future, because Tom already knew Charlie’s projects, and Joy’s of course, because there’s no Charlie without Joy anymore, Tom knew everything about their peaceful, industrious, bourgeois life.  A life that his Father would approve.

“Is it so bad?”

Tom did not understand immediately what Chris was talking about, or why Chris was asking it. He was looking at him with a calm expression, vaguely curious, and Tom realized that he was doing it again: he was lowering his guard and waving ‘bye bye’ to his good old Etonian mask.

_Why is this happening more and more often? Why always with Chris?_

He was worried because he hadn’t heard from his best friend for weeks, he was dying to talk to him yet he procrastinated, because he knew he couldn’t add anything to the excitement of the first few days after getting the part for Wallander.   He’s already tired and he didn’t want to show it. Above all he didn’t want to listen to Charlie’s tales, he didn’t want to be invited for a drink to his and Joy’s house, he didn’t want to eat Joy’s cakes while trying not to look at the pile of Bridal Magazines stashed in a corner of the room. He didn’t want to hear about the mortgage he couldn’t afford yet, he didn’t want to wonder when Charlie would get tired of such a reckless friend, a friend with a fine degree that didn’t want to get his head together and start the job he had studied for, just like his Father wanted.  

Charlie taught Latin in a South London college, average annual income about fifty-six thousand pounds and paid holidays.  A great job that Tom had never really considered, in spite of his classical lectures and the hours spent on Homer and Euripides, travelling with Odysseus or spinning Medea’s vengeance.

To be honest, he knew he wasn’t being fair with Charlie, his best friend was always the first one to celebrate his (rare) victories and to console him for his (many) defeats. Charlie would always uncork a bottle of wine and feed him sweets and cakes, and they would always say that – _damn all_ – the day of Charlie and Joy’s wedding, Tom would be there with him no matter what, no matter the work, even if Spielberg in person called to beg for the best actor of his generation.

"What is it?   Looks like you need to call the heir to the crown!"

Tom tried to compose himself and smiled at Chris’ cheerful tone, because he didn’t like to feel exposed before a stranger. But Chris didn’t make him feel uncomfortable, he didn’t give Tom any reason to keep up the wall of his defenses which were painfully crumbling down before Chris anyway.

Chris didn’t seem inclined to exploit that advantage.

Tom responded "Well, it could be, I attended school with his son, maybe we’re on good terms still?"

"Now you're joking!" Chris laughed, eyebrows raised.

"Absolutely not."

"Yes indeed."

"I assure you not. My father had such high expectations for his only son and so willingly payed for the excessive Eton’s fees."

"You’ll never convince me that you attended school with Crazy Harry and not have the scars to prove it!"

"What -  no! Not Harry, William! How old do you think I am...? "

"I don’t know!  Twenty-three?"

At least he did not say eighteen, Tom could at least think that a success. _Maybe_.

Actually, he always felt a little robbed when someone said he didn’t look his age. For his family – his Father – it was a strange form of vanity and pride to look _older_ , _mature_ , he’d been raised believing that the signs of age told more than words about the person who wore them. Tom did realise it was a foolish way of thinking, he knew he shouldn’t be ashamed of his clean face or his long fingers – more slender than his sisters’s, as his Father always remarked – because they told nothing about him, certainly not the humiliations of underpaid and exhausting jobs he accepted to be able to pay for his freedom.

“I’m twenty-seven.”

Tom mentally kicked himself for letting his irritation slip again. He had always been able to feign amusement, to simulate impassivity, even laugh at the jokes of his family – _father_ – without problem, so why did he always fail around Chris? Why did he always end up with his guard low showing himself at his worst? Tom couldn’t understand, the last two days had been so unfocused and weird that he felt like a stranger in his own skin, and he didn’t like it.

But Chris just laughed. Not a forced chuckle, or a jarred sound to avoid embarrassment. A real and hearty laugh, and Tom felt inexplicably more at ease at once.

"Oh God, Luke looks like he could be your father, when I’ll tell him he’ll be sooo disappointed!"

"Luke?"

"Yes, my big brother. Twenty-seven like you, but not so lucky, he looks like a bear. Wait, I'll show you. "

Chris pulled his wallet out from his back pocket and he showed him a wrinkled photograph depicting what appeared to be his family: a man and a woman, both blond, still young and fine-looking, embraced while surrounded by three young men, who clearly had stolen their features: all blue eyes and thick, blond hair.

Chris’ father was a forty-something sun kissed man. He was about Chris height, and looked more like an older brother or a younger and cool uncle with his bright smile and fit body, with his wrinkled t-shirt and light blue jeans. 

He had an arm around his blond and beautiful wife, who was maybe a little younger than him. She was staring at the camera with a cheerful smile and looked like she’s the happiest woman on earth. _She didn’t look like she was faking it_.

Tom noticed that Chris looked a lot like his father, but he had stolen his mother’s delicate charm.

_They are a happy family, they don’t have to pretend._

Tom didn’t dwell on the other two brothers, just on that one thought that flashes through his mind while looking at Mr. Hemsworth’s eyes in the picture, and for a moment he wanted to tear it off. Because he was happy for Chris, happy that such families existed in the world, but none of his family’s portraits would show his father so content and relaxed just hugging his wife like a treasure.

"Don’t make that face!  Poor Luke, he’s a miniature bear but he’s not so bad."

Tom couldn’t help but laugh at that, because the Hemsworth’s _miniature bear_ was an almost 6 feet tall tank.

Diana had joined them in the living room attracted by their chatter and laughter. She’d dressed up for the evening, and Tom felt the usual small stab of jealousy in the pit of his stomach – _he was such mama's boy_ \- but he gave her a smile and a compliment, grateful for the excuse to change the subject.

"Your sister gave me the car keys, she parked on the street."

"I hope it’s all right, the last time she borrowed it I had to change the brake pads, they were burned." Tom snorted.

"How mean you are, she’d spent all her time at the library to prepare for her castings and final corrections to her thesis."

"Castings? But she graduates in September!"

"Yes, and that’s the reason she won’t be in any play"

"Oh."

"My poor darling was too stressed out to be able to focus enough on both tasks, you know how it is when graduation is near?!”

"She hadn’t say anything to me" Tom muttered.

"You haven’t asked, and it looked like you did not really want to talk, honey. Maybe you should call your sister too, as well as Charles. Next week she’ll be back at university. "

The knock at the door ended the conversation. Brian was punctual as always, and even more elegant, gallant and gracious. He’d been an executive producer for the BBC for many years, but he dealt almost solely on the network’s investment in movies, whilst always on the lookout for new and exciting faces. Like Chris. Brian was the one who insisted they have Chris in the new movie, the one who’d taken him under his wing. Chris liked Brian Chilton a lot, obviously.

They were left alone after the customary pleasantries, and Tom was overwhelmed again by a disheartened feeling. He did not want to call Charlie, he was afraid to know why Emma hadn’t talked to him.  He sucked as a human being. He wanted to get drunk and forget and not talk about anything at all, ever.

"You look like someone who needs a lot of won tons. And a few beers. "

"What?"

"Won tons. Chinese. And a lot of beer. I'm hungry."

Why did it look like Chris was reading his mind? Why did he not say anything, didn’t comment on anything, but seemed to still care for him? _Why did he care for him_?

Tom had maybe gazed at him for too long without saying anything, perhaps – again! – without his good-boy poker face on.

"But if you don’t feel like it -"

"No."

"..."

"No, that's fine, Chinese’ll do. But I need to get out of here, no takeaways. Let's go to Soho. "

"Soho?"

"Do you want to eat decent food? Let's go to Soho. Maybe no one will steal my car. "

But, oddly enough, Tom had just smiled, even at that unpleasant thought.


	5. Five

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which "Infamous Alice" name is said out loud, and the boys find a new house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, lots of thanks to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

 

 

Having a best friend with a lovely fiancé who adores you could be sometimes an issue, because said fiancé would always think you are too cute and lovely to be single. And so she would try to match you with one – or more than one – of her girlfriends. Or, even worse, with one of her sisters.

While he was speaking on the phone with Charlie, Tom thought back to the time Joy had arranged a date for him and Alice, her little sister, depicted as _beautiful, clever exactly your type_.   Tom had been able to avoid the dreaded date for months, but one fateful night Joy – and Charlie, the _bastard_ – took advantage of an alcoholic evening to celebrate one of their friend’s birthday, and introduced them for the first time.

At the time he was attending his RADA second year and hadn’t spoken with his father in two weeks after their last, very quiet, _disagreement_ : Tom was paying the rent for a too small flat, was paying his own expenses and his study fees, and was even able to go out and enjoy himself sometimes, taking odd jobs and only slightly eroding his savings, he felt happy, but for his Father that wasn’t an acceptable life, even if it was just on hold.

Alice was indeed beautiful and cleaver and, on paper, his ideal type, she was even studying classics, they had so much to talk about: actually, Tom hated her ten minutes into their conversation. And he couldn’t even show or do anything about that, because it would have been rude, and she was Joy’s little sister.

He preferred now to think back to that horrible date instead of listening to Charlie babbling, because he needed to remember that yes, their friendship’s so strong it resisted even the Hurricane Alice, Charlie’s nasty sister-in-law to be, that he introduced him just to laugh at his expense. Tom was forced to take her out two more times, because he just couldn’t seem to be able to properly tell her “No”.    Charlie still teased him for those two terrible weeks, where Alice had texted him multiple times a day, almost already planning their wedding, while he just couldn’t find the courage to let her know that... well, that he can’t stand her!  He wouldn’t have been so blunt and offensive of course, but was also having difficulty working out how to be subtle and kind in his rejection!

"Tommy? Are you listening to me? "

"Yes, of course I'm listening."

Which of course was not really true.  He had been too busy frowning and remembering Alice calling him several times a day to not have to wonder about Charlie who had just recently also taken to calling him at regular intervals just to remind him of the same things: life of a teacher on leave had to be terrifyingly monotonous, especially if your significant other had work in July.

"Liar. You're worse than those skivers that call themselves students. Have I told you that they have asked to be allowed to call teachers by first name? "

"No, I’m clearly out of the loop with the latest school gossip!”

"Like equals! They've seen it in some TV show and now they want to do the same. Call me reactionary but I will never allow that! "

Tom had laughed heartily, hard enough to make Chris peek out from kitchen where he was cooking dinner for them: Diana was still out and they were alone again. The week of freedom was almost over, unfortunately.

"Now that I’ve got your attention again, are you still house hunting?"

"Of course I am, I'm desperate!"

"And then, as I was saying while you were drifting off, I may have solved your problem, my friend."

Charlie HAD actually solved his problem. Tom and Chris’ problem, actually, because the flat was small, but spacious enough for two people, Chris was looking for a place too and it was also cheap enough if they shared so Tom could afford it without breaking his savings.

Tom was not Charlie’s only unconventional friend. One of his old friends and colleague from Pembroke had chosen to pursue an academic career and a PHD in Cambridge before moving to London University for a post-doc. But his academic career was in danger of running aground until next generational change and, at the risk of losing him, the university offered him a scholarship to the University of Glasgow. Six months scholarship and the possibility of adding six more months.

"So Andrew was thinking of renting out his apartment in Camden for six months. It is not a permanent solution, but at least you would have more time to look for another one. Then again, maybe in the meantime you’ll become famous and buy a home in Cocaine Hill.   But I warn you, if you start snorting I’ll tell Alice where you live!!”

Tom burst out laughing as he had often done in these last few days, but maybe for the first time that week he allowed himself to be completely honest: it was like being freed of a weight, because he might again have a place he could call _his_ , and he could really relax.  Even if it was only for six to twelve months.

"So, can I tell Andy you're interested?"

"Of course I'm interested, tell him I want the flat! When can I move in? "

"What a hurry! Does Diana knows that you can’t wait to run away from home? Again?"

"No, and she doesn’t need to know until I do. So? When?"

"Tomorrow, if you want? He left last month. He did not want to rent to strangers, you know, all his furniture is still there, and a room is full of his things. You know what, I’ll call his parents tomorrow and I’ll let you know the details, all right? "

It was fine, more than fine, Tom hadn’t felt so relaxed in days. And the good smells coming from the kitchen did wonders to even further improve his mood. He was looking forward to giving Chris the good news.

"Okay. Hey, wait, about Alice: what did you tell her to make her stop calling me? I’m not complaining, but I really don’t understand why she listened to you while she played deaf with me. "

"I gave her the only explanation her ego would accept: I told her you weren’t interested because you're Gay."

"Charlie ..."

"It worked, right? Don’t worry, she was so angry with herself for wasting her precious time with the likes of _you_ that she’d hushed everything down herself. That was the only  reason she would have accepted, she just can’t understand how someone wouldn’t want to kiss the earth beneath her feet.”

"Charlie."

"What?"

"Why are we friends, again?"

"Because I get you flats at rock bottom prices, I introduce you to my singles female colleagues, and ultimately, I do not dump you when you inappropriately start quoting Sophocles after the third whiskey. So shut up and put up! Now, my dear Lvov, I need to return to my lady, and you should do the same! "

"Stop it!"

 

And so they had found a home. _They_ , because - strangely - Tom had not thought twice before including Chris. Because, despite a not so promising beginning,  it was almost like they’ve been roommates their entire life, and Tom just knew he could be playful and childish again, he didn’t need to be on his best behaviour. With Chris he felt at ease and it seemed to be a mutual feeling.

\-----------

Charlie’s flat wasn’t as large as he hoped, but he couldn’t complain. The lease was unquestionably cheap for a flat in that neighborhood, and was far enough from the market to be fairly quiet. 

Tom and Chris arranged their things in the new apartment with Chris’ Manager – who looked pleased to be relieved of needing to finding accommodation for Chris – and some of Tom’s friends help, Emma and Diana acting as supervisors. Diana hadn’t been very happy to see them go so soon, even if she didn’t say anything to Tom. She had liked the company, and Tom and Chris had revived a house to big and too empty for her tastes.

Diana liked Chris. She liked him because he was a good kid and was a good influence on her son, a mother knows those kind of things, and she could see that Tom looked more peaceful, finally relaxed, he was talking openly, scratching the surface to go a little bit deeper without even realizing it, and with a _stranger_. Because of Chris, Tom was being more like the always moving happy child that he had been, always so inquisitive and confident in the future.

Diana had often caught herself playing the piano and then looking around the room looking for Tom, who wasn’t singing The Sun Has Got His Hat On with her, who wasn’t dancing along the music. Then she remembered he wasn’t there and he wasn’t eight years old anymore.

He was twenty-seven instead, and was just pretending to fight with a blond aussie over a couch and how best to move it to watch TV.   As if they would have time with their work scheduling. Tom had just a day to settle down, he would work the next one, he had a meeting with the cast, and a pre-reading. The circus would start again soon, and it wouldn’t be time anymore for Tom to think about is Father or his career, he’d be too busy listening to other voices in his head.

Chris would start working in two days, so he’d use his more free time to take a look at the neighborhoods, perhaps even visit the West End with its theatres.

 

When, exhausted and finally alone after setting up their new home, Chris had confessed to Tom that he had never been to a play, and received a shocked look. Tom didn’t quite believe that there were people not interested in theatre. Certainly not other actors.

“I didn’t say I’m not interested, I just said I’ve never seen a real play. A serious one, I mean, not some amateur school club thing.”

"I was in drama club at Eton."

"But it was Eton! You had the heir to the throne in the audience watching you, how many actors can say the same? "

"Well, it’s not really like that, but - "

"But it's different. Anyway I want to come to see you, you must give me your schedule. "

"But next week you’ll start working too."

“I know, but we’ll shoot at night most of the time, and I’m not one of the main characters so I’ll have a lot of free time between takes. I can come see you without problem.”

“Well, if you want to… But it’ll be boring, theatre rehearsals are really technical, in the beginning above all, and - ”

“And now you’re making excuses, I might take offence.”

He was right. 

They were all pretexts, and pathetic ones too, he’d never been good at telling lies, not even white ones.  And Chris had caught him red-handed, once again he found himself surprised and naked before his scrutiny.

Tom never brought his friends to rehearsal, had never even brought his family backstage. He never tried to really analyze the reasons, but he preferred to be alone, to concentrate without distractions on the script.

He didn’t want to have his family and friends witness his mistakes, all the lines repeated million of  times, and the director’s suggestions and reprimands, he didn’t want to look like an incompetent that had thrown away three years of his life, because he would never be able to live up to the great actors who – for some reason – accepted to work with him.

Thinking about Chris in the audience while he would rehearse just made him unease, because they had known each other for a week, they started with the wrong foot, and he didn’t want to look like an idiot before him.

“Oh come on, Branagh is such an asshole you’re afraid to take someone to rehearsal? I’ll crawl in a dark corner, no one would even notice me. But if there are other problems, then - ”

“No! Ken is wonderful, don’t say that, he wouldn’t make a fuss. Just… All right, but don’t tell my mother. Or Emma.”

Chris looked a little bit puzzled, and had said nothing for a while. Then he smiled putting a hand over his heart.

“Scout’s honor.”

It was ridiculous how a simple smile and a joke from Chris managed to free him, slowly, from the tension. Tom settled better on the couch cushions - which was less comfortable than it looked - and sighed deeply at the absurd situation, at that little disconcerting closeness arisen in so little time. That he couldn’t tell if he liked it or not, because before Chris he sometimes felt as raw as bone.

"You want to sleep?"

"Actually, not really."

"Then I propose another beer, so you can tell me all about this infamous Alice."

"Absolutely not!"

"Oh, absolutely yes, you owe me, I made dinner, and if you want to eat tomorrow night too, you'd better make me laugh."

"Sneaky blackmailer."

"And you've just found out my best side!"

Tom sincerely wanted to throw a cushion at his head, uncertain of whether feigning outrage or giving in and to laugh at the absurd guy who he couldn’t seem to read.

"Hey!"

A year of rugby had been useful, he still had a good shot. And of that he could laugh.


	6. Six

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Chris finally can speak his mind and a housewarming is much needed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

 

 

London wasn’t like Chris remembered, but he wasn’t surprised. Two years earlier he had spent a few weeks in the city without really being able to really experience it, because that’s just about near impossible when you have a jam-packed agenda.

He and his cast mates hadn’t really enjoyed the stay, not even Isabel, because that promotional tour had been exhausting, and they were all going to leave the show anyway. Or rather, they didn’t know it yet, but Chris knew he didn’t want to play the beach bum forever, he didn’t want to be just the eye candy anymore. He was tired of wearing bathing suits and tank top, his nipples weren’t worthier that his acting skills, and he wouldn’t be able to really prove himself on Home & Away.

At the time, neither he or Isabel imagined that their relationship was almost over, and tried to make the best of that trip despite the tension of being constantly under watch; every step, even the most innocent one, had been carefully planned by someone of  their entourage, even the _romantic_ dinners.

Chris tried to avoid to think about Isabel and their three years together. He didn’t want to think about it because he had let them slip through his fingers and from his heart so easily. Deep down he knew he was lucky, that that failure wasn’t going to haunt him because they had mutually decided to go their separate ways.  He had fond memories of those three years and couldn’t remember a real fight between them. The truth was he had loved Isabel, but in the end it had become a comfortable friendship for both of them, because they worked together twelve to eighteen hours a day almost every day, their private lives were not-existent, and the opportunity to meet someone outside work was even more unlikely. Isabel was so beautiful and clever and funny. His mother really liked her.

Camden was such an odd neighborhood, Chris had been baffled and intrigued at the same time: it was colourful and noisy, fashion was an aleatory concept and everyone looked common and outlandish at the same time. So when Tom asked him to move in together – he didn’t say it like that, but it’s what they were doing anyway –  to a flat in Camden, he accepted right away, curious to live in a part of the city so different to Wimbledon.

Diana hadn’t been truly happy to see them go, but she had not said or done anything to dissuade them either and Tom had seemed grateful for that.

In his place Chris would have been disappointed about Diana’s lack of discouragement, but then the Hemsworths had always been a noisy family and strongly matriarchal; despite the crowd of men - Leonie reigned truly as a lioness.

_But Tom_.

Chris was not sure yet if he liked this weird English guy. Or rather, he was not sure if Tom liked _him_ , and so he suspended judgment on his part too. He had always been able to place – accurately or not – a person. Maybe sometimes that changed, but he could always form an opinion about someone. With Tom, he just couldn’t.

And the fact that he felt so comfortable with him, was a further source of confusion.  
  
They had started out on the wrong foot, and it would have been so easy to just spend the week looking askance and trying to avoid each other. He had initially thought that scenario would totally be the most plausible, and had mentally prayed that his manager would speed things up and find him new accommodation.

He was really tempted to call home to moan about his gracious host’s asshole son too, but he desisted, he didn’t want to become a laughing stock for Luke even more.

And instead he found himself trying to decipher the expressions of a guy who appeared always happy and open meeting people, in spite of the conflicting annoyance Chris was sure he could read upon his skin. It was a problem with no solution, a snake biting its tail: Tom pretended to like everyone, how then could he really know when his pleasure was sincere?

He tried to ask himself why it was so important to know this, but couldn’t find a decent answer. After a week under the same roof, he hadn’t been able to untie the knots of that tangled personality yet, but at the same time he felt strangely comfortable with it. Pleasant.

Ok, he had to admit it, Chris liked Tom, it was fun to talk to him, and he would remember for a long time the half-drunk slalom through Soho’s narrow streets: he’d laughed so much and risked throwing up on his shoes on several occasion while Tom drove like a madman and cussed so much that Chris couldn’t believe his hears.  
  
Chris rehearsed his role in his mind without real interest while on the subway that would take him to Wood Lane for the shooting: he had a fairly insignificant role, nothing would change for him after that movie. He didn’t regret leaving a starring role in a soap opera, but had hoped for something more, a role more nuanced and a little bit more noteworthy. The only good thing had been that he hadn’t needed to pose in a tank top for the screen test, his character was a grungy young adult, and it was OK for him.

Tom started work too, and Chris was discovering another part of him that probably shouldn’t have surprised him so much. Because Tom was all over the place, he was always pacing in the flat, always moving, always talking, always doing something. He wasn’t the protagonist of the play – of which he couldn’t remember the name – but Tom didn’t care. Chris had often spied him walk in circles around the small living room table muttering and gesturing along his lines, and he had envied so much passion. He couldn’t find it for his own movie. Not that he didn’t think it was a good project – because it was, his manager was right and that project will look good on his CV – but he didn’t particularly like his role: it wasn’t enough of a change to go from a brash, uninhibited teenager with daddy issues, to a runaway youngster with brother issues. Lumberjack shirt apart.  

He was wandering around Studio1 waiting for the next shot while wondering how it would be to work in the more intimate setting of a theatre, with no spaces to hide and have a moment alone for themselves, no dark corner to escape to unnoticed.

They would be shooting the movie for at least another five or six weeks, but it was likely his presence would not be required for so long, as the production had decided to shoot all his – and other characters too – scenes together to contain the costs. Or at least it was what transpired to him.

His manager called him every morning to catch up on the developments, as he called his parents almost every evening, always after 11 p.m. due to the time zone. His parents had always been early risers, but he didn’t want to bother them at sunrise.

"Chris! Hey, Hemsworth! Come back, we’re ready to shoot. "

"Coming!"

Tom almost always came back home after Chris, and almost always never tired. Or, at least, he didn’t show it, and it was another peculiarity of his new friend that Chris was struggling to understand and even justify: he felt somehow defrauded of his sacrosanct right to whine with his roommate. Tom would not reciprocate, he was sure of that, and it irked Chris a lot. He realized it was a stupid thought, but he was a gazillion miles from home, in a little more than lukewarm city, long distant to the teases and support of his family. In a sense he really had just Tom in London, he was the only one in England who wasn’t forced or paid to keep up with him.

Nostalgia was biting at him strongly despite the long hours of works, and Chris felt a little bit ridiculous because he was twenty five years old and he had been living alone since he was nineteen, the first and final separation from his family home had occurred years ago. Then again, he never was more than a few hours drive from his family, not more than nine hours time zone.

And he missed the ocean. London was a city that lived in symbiosis with the water, but the Thames was not big enough to suggest memories of surfboards and salt in your hair.

They were living  together for almost two weeks when they were invaded.

They were both tired after long hours of work, a little frustrated for different reasons, and both determined not to show it, so the last thing they wanted was the incursion of Tom’s friends. And Freddie’s, because some of the people he had brought with him were strangers to Emma too.

They had shown up unannounced at the door, with beers and bags of chips, a few bottles of an unidentified liquor - vodka? Gin? What happened to the labels? - and pretzels.

"You have enough glasses, right?"

A strange guy with a vaguely foreign accent, which could be Italian or Russian as far as Chris knew, had greeted them unabashed with a cheeky grin and a pack of Guinness.

_Tom was not happy._

Chris didn’t know why he was so sure of it, but, regardless of the unperturbed face, the calm smile, the relaxed pose, he just _knew_ Tom was pretending. Perhaps because they were both tired, or because – before the friendly invasion – they were simply vegetating on the couch nursing a last beer and exchanging small talks on their respective days at work. They were content.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!  I swear I didn’t know Freddie would call so many people, but it was you who told him that he could organize the housewarming party, remember? I'm here to keep him at bay. "

Emma was right, Tom had really told Freddie he could. The fact the promise had been extorted after an afternoon of harassment didn’t seem to trouble Freddie, who continued to direct the laying out of drinks and snacks, unperturbed.

"And how on earth had he known that tomorrow is my day off?"

"I might inadvertently let it slip, sorry."

Chris approached Tom and Emma with a couple of beers - _he did not know who gave them to him, Bob? Rob? Whatever_ \- cold enough to be pleasant. He looked around and saw happy faces, strange hairdos and colorful dresses, generous show of cleavages of which he was grateful for. In other words, a lot of friendly people.

His day at work had been hard. He was really tired and he would have liked to chat a little bit more with Tom and then go to sleep, possibly for 12 hours straight. He hadn’t any other scenes to shoot for the next three days and he was a little downhearted, he feared the tension and was afraid he wasn’t doing a good job at all, actually he was already quite sure he had ruined everything, and the fact he couldn’t say anything was devouring him inside out.

Living with someone so focused on his job that he couldn’t see anything else as that would be a distraction, wasn’t helping him at all.

Maybe that unexpected party would help him shake off his frustration a little, a few glasses would lose his knots, maybe lose Tom’s too, that with his new goatee he looked a little more his age.

"Come on, cheer up. We’ll think about the hangover tomorrow, now we need the distraction! "

Tom looked at him with his usual unfathomable expression, the one which made him look like somewhere between a serial killer and a good-natured country priest – _and one day Chris will ask him just how he could do it_ – but it lasted just few moment: he felt Tom’s shoulder loosen up under his arm, his face relax and even spied a hint of a smile.

“We’ll see if you’ll be so happy tomorrow morning when we’ll have to clean up!”

Chris grimaced at the thought, but Tom was finally laughing and infecting everyone else along with him. Freddie was approaching them with his inseparable Nikon, and in that moment Chris was sure he would pointing it at them for the entire evening.

But Freddie gave up at the last moment, after a halfhearted shot he put down his camera and just jumped on them, hugging them tightly to stop any reprimand or protest.

“We’ll have so much fun! I have to introduce you to a lot of people, and you need to taste an abso-fucking-licious new cocktail. My invention.”

"Freddie, mixing randomly vodka and whatever else comes your way is not exactly inventing a cocktail: the last time, your fabulous invention, almost choked me with a cherry pit. And no, I do not know how it got there, spare me. Hey!"

Freddie theatrically feigned offence and snatched Tom’s beer, then unceremoniously took the bottle to his lips before walking away laughing.

"It means that I'll put this in your cocktail this time, sweetheart!"

The evening slipped away on those playful notes, and Chris was more than happy. Someone had brought a stereo and some awful music that encouraged everyone to dance, Chris laughed with someone he didn’t even remember the name of, he found an unexpected surfer brother in a Welsh guy built like a bull and with dreadlock down to his ass, profession: stockbroker in the City.

The colourful bunch of Freddie’s – and Tom’s: Freddie had been thoughtful enough to call them too – friends was made up of such different people Chris never thought they could get along: there were students and former students of art and theatre, serious professionals in formal suits, former Etonian with dyed hair and an Oxford PhD on the wall of their offices, college and pre-school teachers.

Chris looked at them and someway he could understand Tom’s frustration, he was similar to them and at the same time was just a draft of what he had dreamed of being. Unlike them

Chris had dreamed of being a professional surfer. A long time ago, when he religiously followed Bodhi lessons to Johnny Utah, when he nearly failed a school year because he spent almost all his afternoon swimming in the ocean or riding his surfboard. He had to give up that dream soon enough, because he wasn’t delusional and knew his limits: the board cut through the waves and split the ones who can spread wings on the ocean from the ones who can just watch. Chris was a merciless judge and, if he couldn’t aspire to excellence, he preferred to devote himself to something else, something  that would allow him to be more than just one among a crowd. He never wanted to be just a face in a crowd.

Meanwhile, the beer flowed freely, they drank and danced, even Tom was spinning with his best friend’s always-wife, and was laughing too, probably a bit drunk, just like himself after all, just like they all were.

And Chris didn’t know why, but he felt the urge to follow him on the dance floor – in spite of the shame he still carried for the ridiculous TV show he was forced to take part in – to dance and laugh with him until he couldn’t feel his feet and his lungs anymore.


	7. Seven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which is all Freddie's fault. Really!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

 

 

Awkwardness wasn’t on the table when they decided to share a flat. It wasn’t because _those_ kind of things always happened to others, Chris told himself, the unthinkable couldn’t happened to them, why be worried?

Chris hadn’t been worried, Tom hadn’t been worried, the week they spent at Diana’s home had given them a lot of reason to think it would be fine living together. It hadn’t been necessary to discuss rules or confines, they were strangely alike in their habits and idiosyncrasies. Or at least, none of them found the other peculiarities annoying enough to be unbearable, they had adapted to the new routine very well, and with not many compromises.

_Everything was fine._

But then Branagh came into the picture. And Freddie butted in piling up with  his loneliness and stress, and the frustration for a job he didn’t really like, and there was even the inadequacy Chris had felt in an odd theatre that didn’t even look like one.

The Donmar was small and didn’t smell of old wood, it wasn’t daunting, no heavy curtains and labyrinthine backstage. But when he tried to tease Tom about it he gave himself much to regret. Because Tom wasn’t irritated, no, it just gave him a reason to launch himself on a social and architectural lesson that Chris really hadn’t asked for.  From which he discovered Tom was very much an eager schoolteacher at heart, the real surprise was he was shocked everyone had believed that was his aspiration.

Chris couldn’t remember the occasion of that particular confidence – _there’d been many ones, almost always unexpected from both of them_ – but he remembered he had to bite his tongue to keep from laughing at Tom’s evident frustration, because he really had never thought about that kind of career. Yet he would have been perfect for the job, surely more than Chris’ high school teacher: Tom spoke quietly about his favourites authors and books as if he was picking up ideas to write himself, he had an unique ability to captivate with his sophisticated but natural language. But Chris would never have told him how he liked listening to him, even till late in the evening and with an early rise the next morning. He wouldn’t tell him because it was already hard to make him shut up for more than few minutes in a row.

The truth was they was both aware of the specific moment awkwardness fell between them. Even if they hadn’t registered the event as embarrassing at the time, not really: it was all Freddie’s fault if, a few weeks later, the episode had become awkward. Thinking about it, Freddie was to blame for the cause of the incident too. Yes, it was all Freddie’s fault.

The night of the gathering for the new flat they partied too much and drank even more. They were cheerful, they needed the diversion to keep the stress at bay, and it had been weeks since Chris had found himself surrounded by people his age with no thought other than not to think at all. It was a nice feeling.

They had been drinking hard into the night, then one of the serious professionals – _the one with his tie still around his neck and not around his head_ – gazed at the watch and remembered the work appointment he had next day, triggering a reaction chain of well deserved booing first, and of strategic defections after, because next would be a working day for almost everyone. 

Only Emma, Freddie, Charlie and Joy had stayed a little bit more to help tidy up the flat for a less post apocalyptic look, but they gave up soon enough, they were all too tired and drunk to accomplish much.

So Chris and Tom found themselves alone on the couch staring at the wall in front of them in an almost catatonic state. But Tom couldn’t stop talking for long even if drunk.

"I think someone has had sex on my bed."

"Really?"

"Uh-uh."

"..."

"I think I'm too drunk to be really bothered about it."

"And I'm too drunk to tell you to change the sheets."

"..."

"..."

"But you just did."

"Oh."

Long story short, they were actually too drunk to think straight, so no one had changed the sheets of any bed because neither of them could make it to bed at all: Chris woke up next morning with Tom weakly elbowing him to try to break himself free, as Chris had him stuck between the sofa and his body.

And at first he hadn’t known what to do, too confused and hungover, bothered by the sun's rays filtering through the curtains that they hadn’t pulled together the night before, even annoyed at having been awakened while sleeping comfortably. Only after he realized why he was so comfortable had he began to panic.

"Come on Chris, I gotta go to the loo, let me go."

Those words alone had been able to dissolve any mortification, because they started laughing at the situation and at themselves. Then they rose from the couch, and Chris had thanked his lucky stars for the incident had become just a funny tale – _for themselves_ – and not an upheaval. They took some analgesic. Drank gallons of water, and slowly started to clean the house.

Chris didn’t wonder why Tom seemed to always have something to do in another room all morning, why they weren’t going for a run after lunch, why they spoke so little all day. He had never seen Tom hungover, so he couldn’t know if that was his normal behaviour after a binge, and anyway he had his own symptoms to look after. He was so relieved about that morning that he wasn’t going to analyze or doubt anything.

_Everything was fine._

And so they had spent weeks not talking about it, Tom had returned to his usual jovial self that same evening, so Chris felt further assured that there weren’t any problems.

His shooting would be completed within a few days when he forced Tom to keep his promise to take him to his rehearsal, and that was just the first of the many times that had followed.

At first he had made himself invisible sitting on one of the theatre’s rear seats. After the first hasty introductions no one paid attention to him, too caught up in the rehearsals of which Chris was mesmerised.   Kenneth Branagh was the only really famous actor on stage, and yet Chris thought the average level of the others was not far behind. Tom was certainly not far behind.

Chris didn’t know the play that they were performing, but he was well aware of how hard the dialogues were, how difficult were the text and interpretations.

Theatre and movies were as alike as the Sun and the Moon, cinema clearly lived on reflected light.

When he told this to Tom that night on their way home, however, Tom had laughed at his admired comparison.

"But everybody races for the moon don’t they?"

And he had been right. Sure enough he was one of the many contenders in that quest in which just a few were set to succeed.

Summer was ending quickly, the _heat_ had given way to a persistent drizzles and pins-like drops, Chris had shot his last scenes, and Tom swapped between peaks of exhilaration and abyss of affliction while waiting for Ivanov’s premiere, and Chris didn’t know how he was able to endure the stress every time.

His manager suggested he didn’t return to Australia yet, that he would have more opportunities in Europe to find interesting new projects to further his career, and Chris was more than happy to indulge him, despite the homesickness he didn’t want to miss any opportunity.

_But then Freddie got in the way. Again._

Their routine was totally perfect: they woke up, had some breakfast, went running in different places – Tom knew London like the back of his hand, he took him places Chris would never had known of alone – and they would go their separate ways to work. And, since his movie’s shooting ended, Chris hadn’t much to do. He sometimes met with his manager to rake through the situation and discuss new potential jobs, had some tea with Diana, went out to dinner with the new friends he made thanks to Tom and Freddie, but he essentially hadn’t really much to do, so it happened more and more often that he would follow Tom to his rehearsals.

No one cared about him anymore, no one asked who he was and what he wanted anymore, he’d been registered as a constant but harmless presence, and left alone.

During an afternoon spent at Diana’s home, he had found Emma and Freddie.  Emma was feeling down because of her upcoming graduation, she couldn’t sleep anymore and it showed, she looked terribly pale and emaciated, devoid of all energy, and Freddie and Diana were trying to cheer her up with little success.

It was then that Freddie gave him a thick white envelope eyeing him strangely.

"I developed them a few days ago, they are very beautiful."

It contained all the photos he had taken of him and Tom.

_Perhaps the mistake had been looking at them together._

It was late October, and Ivanov had been on stage for almost a month. The premiere had been a success - _of course. Chris had seen the rehearsals, he never had  doubts about it_ \- with audiences and critics, and Chris had even managed to meet the infamous Mr. Hiddleston Snr, otherwise a mythological figure he had just glimpsed at between the lines of his childrens conversations. He was an already aged man, much older than Diana, tall and thin as Tom, and just looking at him, you’d never imagine that that always vaguely sardonic expression concealed a drill sergeant. He could understand why Tom and Emma were always a bit on edge when he was around, he suspected he could have spied the same reaction in Sarah too, if she had been there.

It was late autumn, the sky darkened early and the evenings were getting cold, it was raining more often and Tom, after the play, was always too excited and at the same time too tired to sleep or do anything else.

So Chris had pulled out the photos as they were sitting on the couch with a last beer. He didn’t started worrying at the first image, nor at the second or at the third one. It was all the other ones, showing basically the same thing: he had never realized how much personal space seemed to be an irrelevant concept between them. He realized that, in that moment, they were actually sitting too close with no real reason.

But, continuing the post-hangover behaviour, Tom went quickly through the photographs, gave  them back to him and then went to bed, apparently too tired to go on with the evening.

As if nothing had happened, and Chris thought once again that maybe he was imagining things. He didn’t dare to wonder what exactly he was imagining, what nonexistent meaning he was giving to those photos in which they always were too close to each other.

He liked Tom, they were friends, He could actually say they were like brothers at that point. So he was obviously thinking too much about… well, about whatever Freddie was implying with the look he gave when handing him the packet. As he had said, it was all Freddie’s fault.

Tom wasn’t bothered, Tom didn’t give the photographs any particular meaning, that was clear, even if it seemed as if he was avoiding Chris, or if he was always too tired or busy to join him for a jog, or if he didn’t wake Chris up every morning to have breakfast together before heading to the theatre. Chris seriously needed to stop mulling over nothing, he had to find some other way to occupy his time.

Perhaps it would be better to go back home, his mother had been asking when he would come back for a while now.

But then one morning Tom invited him to go for a run even though it was raining, he took him to the Regent’s park and asked him to go to rehearsal with him that afternoon.

“ Ken is going to direct the new Marvel movie."

"Really? Wow! Is it the new Iron Man? "

"No, it’s a new franchise apparently, he hasn’t told me much."

Meanwhile the rain had become a light drizzle, more annoying than anything. They strode past the zoo and walked slowly along the Boardwalk, probably headed to the theatre, Tom always headed towards the theatre and the lake.

"He told me to try out for the main role, he says I might be a good fit."

"That’s great, it's incredible news!"

Chris didn’t think twice before taking him by an arm and pulling him towards himself in an embrace that lasted too long, but it was only half reciprocated.

"He told me to try, not that the role is mine."

"I'm sure it’ll be fine, you two already worked together, he knows you, and you are incr -"

"He wants you to try for it, too."

"What?"

"He wants you to try for it. I don’t know what he has in mind, I told you. "

"But ... But we talked a couple of times at most, I thought he wasn’t even really aware of my existence and -"

"Of course he’s aware of you, don’t be silly. And I already told him about you, he knows who you are and what you do. "

"But…"

"You should speak to him later."

They went on walking in silence for a while . The rain had stopped, but the sky was still dark and heavy, they had left the zoo behind and were moving closer to the Inner Circle.

Chris was thinking about how that audition would impact his career. Marvel had virtually revived the career of an actor judged finished by most, but Robert Downey Jr. was not only vices and extravagances, he was also someone who had arrived near an Oscar twice more than he did, he surely couldn’t be worth the risk.

And opening a new franchise would be risky, why choose a rookie? But Branagh had asked him and Tom to try for the part, so maybe they want a new face for the new franchise.

_Yeah. Him and Tom._

Chris wondered if that was the reason for Tom’s strange behaviour the previous days. It would make sense, certainly more than a single vaguely embarrassing event and some photos not even so compromising. Something about he didn’t think about anymore, obviously.

"Things won’t get strange between us, will they?"

He didn’t know why he felt the need to ask, nor what he really meant: was he talking about the audition for a Hollywood studios, their cohabitation, some photos closed in a drawer to be never seen again?

Tom remained silent for a few seconds watching him thoughtfully, then he started laughing.

"Strange? Why, you may have the superhero looks, but I’m the one with connections, what should I be afraid of? "

Then he lightly shoved Chris with his shoulder before starting to run and leave him behind.

"Hey! That’s  unfair! "

When they arrive home, many kilometres, laughter and chatter later, Chris watched Tom drying his curls with a towel and pretended to think only about the meeting that he would soon have with Kenneth Branagh, and nothing else.

And not that it was all Freddie’s fault.


	8. Eight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where everything's possible in California. But actually the fault is in a crooked couch. 
> 
>  
> 
> [...]They slipped into their London-established routine so easily that it was almost disquieting, so much to make his manager grin and leer at Chris, because he wasn’t buying the tale of the visiting British friend.
> 
> “If you’ve found yourself a girl good for you, just don’t get stuck so soon, remember that I’m living on the wrong side of South Bay, and I’m always sure that it’s you who will make me live on the right one.”
> 
> Chris was always denying and laughing at the joke, because of fear of jinxing his luck, but above all because of the allusion to his love life. And Tom. He didn’t know why he never tried harder to deny it.[...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

 

 

British’s tea tastes better, there’s no denying it.

Chris sipped the strange concoction sold as tea in Los Angeles and told himself it would be better to just go for coffee instead.

He was in California from a couple of months and had once again found the ocean and the smell of salt in the wind. But above all he was there to find better job opportunities, even if that meant he was alone again, just an ocean away from his family.

He was half the globe away from Diana’s delicious tea, too. And from his and Tom’s - _who never gave up on his black tea and chatting between sips_ \- afternoon breaks.

It was late January and Chris had to leave Australia again after spending Christmas with his family. It was winter and the City of Angels was as warm as an early spring, almost like Melbourne. The nights were cool and brought back to mind the end of the London summer, an ugly and uncomfortable sofa and two cold beers, too many chats and sudden silences, cocoon-like and surprisingly comfortable.

He was living in his manager’s annexe and helped babysitting his children between auditions, while waiting for the one he really wanted. And it was frustrating, because he wanted it so much, but he didn’t want to take Tom’s opportunity away too, he didn’t want to compete with Tom, he was so thrilled by that rivalry, he didn’t even know what he wanted anymore.

He hadn’t heard from Tom since New Year’s Day, when they’d exchanged greetings twice, under different skies and exploding colours. They had talked about work, but not _that_ job, neither of them wanted to admit it was the role they wanted more than anything: it could be their chance, maybe the only one.

Chris made a screen test just the day before for another horror movie, where he would play for the umpteenth time the jock in a tank top. Yet he was content with playing the role, because it would be a great film, he could feel it. Whedon, the screenwriter, was a strange guy that Tom would have probably liked, but Chris  actually liked him too: he was totally crazy, and wrote Marvel comics. So Chris didn’t tell him that his favourite character was Batman and that he had discovered Iron Man at the cinema, he was sure Joss would be greatly offended.

He was idly going through the pages of his script when his phone buzzed to life. It was late, so he knew it wasn’t his parents, and he was sure it couldn’t be Mindy, the girl he met some days ago on the beach: they met for a coffee that afternoon, but the date didn’t go really well.

"Guess who’s coming to L.A.?"

The line was disturbed by the thousands of miles away, but Chris would recognise Tom's clipped English tone anywhere.

"I’ve been called for an audition and, since I'll be there I may as well take advantage and tour the city, maybe I’ll get myself some more."

 _Audition_. He hadn’t say it, but Chris understood immediately what audition he meant.

The line disturbances didn’t allow them to talk much, but Tom had the time to give him his new address, he even managed to infect Chris with his enthusiasm, making him forget for a moment the he hadn’t received the same call yet. And who knew if he would.

He would have the same call, or rather, his manager told him Marvel Studios called, just two days after, shortly before Tom’s arrival.

 _They were on a equal field again_.

And it was ridiculous to slip down that slope, he knew it, because he and Tom were friends and they were professionals,  he had other actor friends, plenty of them actually, his own two brothers were actors for crying out loud, he had never been worried about competition, he believed in doing his best and may the best man win.

The truth was, he shouldn’t have followed him to the theatre, because at the Donmar he really started to ask himself how come they did the same job, how was it possible the actors who stood up with someone like Branagh on stage were simply regarded as _typecasts_ , names unknown to the masses, known only to enthusiasts and insiders. For the general public they almost didn’t exist, they didn’t even earn enough to buy a house.

And old insecurities started to rise their ugly heads, but he refused to even acknowledge them, because he had never looked for free passes in life, no excuses, he wouldn’t be demoralized by other people’s talent, he would simply work harder to refine his own. He knew he could do it, he wouldn't hide behind a family or anything else, not like Luke had. He would make it big, he would  be one of the few to do it.

Picking the area was a choice of opportunity, he wasn’t really interested in visiting L.A., and honestly Chris couldn’t blame him: the Los Angeles of common people, the ones that didn’t drive a hundred thousand dollars cars or have penthouse-like offices, was almost ugly, even sad. A metropolis with too large streets and too much concrete. The shore was something else, the coast was heaven, but it wasn’t for everyone.

They slipped into their London-established routine so easily that it was almost disquieting, so much to make his manager grin and leer at Chris, because he wasn’t buying the tale of the visiting British friend.

“If you’ve found yourself a girl good for you, just don’t get stuck so soon, remember that I’m living on the wrong side of South Bay, and I’m always sure that it’s you who will make me live on the right one.”

Chris was always denying and laughing at the joke, because of fear of jinxing his luck, but above all because of the allusion to his love life. _And Tom_. He didn’t know why he never tried harder to deny it.

 _That_ audition hadn’t gone well. Branagh hadn’t been it, but he had clearly seen the disappointment on the writers faces, in the eyes of their employees too, who had visibly liked his appearances, not so much his performance.

He couldn’t say he blamed them, he sucked hard and he knew it, he was so tense that he ended up making a fool of himself mimicking what little he remembered about a Hamlet’s 90’s movie version, Branagh’s Hamlet. And, if someone realized the attempt, it hadn’t been appreciated at all. He had been dismissed quickly after to make room for the next candidate.

Tom’s audition, on the contrary, had gone pretty fine. He thought. Because he hadn’t had a clear answer, nor  assurances, only some praises. But at least they asked him to return for a new audition after putting on some weight and muscles, to be more like Thor, essentially.

Chris had to force him to go out and celebrate.  Eventually they both had very little to drink anyway, and not only because of Chris disappointment for his audition’s outcome, but above all because he no longer trusted himself drunk around the other, especially since he wasn’t planning to come back home.

He had been sleeping on the scruffy couch in Tom’s tiny flat several times, as if to make up for lost time, for the days when they had not spoken on the phone and the days that they could not spend together in Los Angeles, because Tom wasn’t lying when he’d told him that he was going to try out everywhere he could.

And so he did.

At least until a week before he was due to return to London, when everything seemed to be changing once again to not change at all. And it was something that made Chris nuts, that way Tom had to give the impression that nothing touched him, he was waterproof to any emotion. And Chris knew it was not true.

Who could he blame for that new episode? As much as he had thought about it, there was no one, nothing, he could blame.

Chris was very grumpy that morning. The couch was uncomfortable and he hadn’t slept a lot, nor well. Tom just kept his routine of auditions and screen tests, but wasn’t speaking with him anymore, he had stopped scribbling in is always present notebook too, as he had nothing to say anymore, not even to the paper. Yet he was always cheerful, always springy, always ready to meet new people, do new things.

And even that faithful morning, Tom woke up on the right foot, he had laughed at Chris’ upset and crumpled face, poured him a glass of orange juice and made coffee.

They had breakfast together as always when Chris spent the night, and they talked about everything and nothing, carefully avoiding to talk about work or the impending departure.

"Damn, it’s late, I must go now. Don't forget to lock the door if you go out. "

He ran to brush his teeth, then took his coat, bent down to kiss him hurriedly and had rushed through the door right away.

And at first Chris didn’t think there was anything unusual in what happened, he mumbled a sleepy _bye_ and poured himself some more coffee.

But then he tasted mint flavor on his lips and almost dropped his mug.

Tom kissed him. Tom kissed him, and he’d just lifted his mouth to kiss him back. They had kissed.

The world kept going on outside the window, but it was not the same in a small kitchen in Los Angeles suburbs, where an Australian guy sat reconsidering his quarter century of life in a new light.

Because he and Tom kissed and he wasn’t feeling what he thought he should feel: he wasn’t dismayed, nor ashamed. What should he do? What should they do? Was Tom really aware of what happened in the kitchen? Chris would find out soon enough, that’s for sure.

Maybe he should just go home, act as if that never happened, even pretend he and Tom never met in the first place. He called himself a fool a thousand times, that familiarity had been all wrong from the start, he should have known something was bound to happen. Something not just simply friendly.

That damned crooked couch! Damn it for not letting him sleep well, for slowing down his reflexes and judgment, he wanted to destroy it just like he wanted to destroy that other couch, the one back in London, the one where he slept so well, comfortably embraced by someone else.

And then there were Freddie’s photographs too, the ones in which Tom was so relaxed and smiling, the ones in which their arms were always touching, where they were always too close to each other, always hugging for no reason, always sharing secret smiles and glances.

What should he do? The truth was he didn’t want to leave. He was scared, but he didn’t want to leave, and wanted to continue to have Tom in his life, because Tom anchored him to something that he didn’t know or felt ready to name, and then again he felt totally lost, the horizon before him wasn’t a familiar one anymore, he didn’t have coordinates on which direction to take.

He waited.

He waited all afternoon, then all evening, ate alone at the kitchen table, to afraid to leave the flat even for a little bit. Tom should had been back home by then, and his absence screamed of the discomfort he must be feeling, that Chris felt too.

"I thought you would be gone by now."

Chris didn’t hear him, too focused on his own thoughts. Tom was still at the door, closed it slowly and put his jacket away even more slowly, not looking at him. It looked like he was dragging every gesture to prolong them as long as possible, just to have an excuse to not look at Chris.

"I preferred to stay in."

They was silent for a time long enough to seem endless, silent and still. Tom kept looking everywhere but  at Chris, who wouldn’t stop seeking his gaze instead. He had had a lot of time to think about what happened and he didn’t want to run away or give up. Not again.

"Tom-"

"I'm sorry."

Tom cut him short and looked straight at him, seemingly sure of what he was going to say.

"I'm sorry. I know I have no excuse, but I assure you that it was an accident, a stupid mishap due to anxiety, and because I was in a hurry, and it won’t happen ever again. "

And Chris should have been glad, because Tom was offering him the perfect escape to shun the problem, Tom was giving him the opportunity to play the magnanimous friend on a silver platter. But was it really so simple? Because Chris kept trying to find something familiar before him, but just found a foreign land. In which he didn’t want to step upon alone. He was afraid.

"It doesn’t matter, it’s nothing, I know. No misunderstandings. Nothing serious happened. I made dinner. "

Neither of them was really hungry, but Tom just sagged with so much evident relief and a smile so grateful that Chris was tempted to throw away any awkwardness and hug him tightly. But he knew he couldn’t do such things anymore, and that was the only reason to regret what did happen that morning.

Tom talked more than eat. He just filled every second of silence with anecdotes and memories, with short and off-key laughs, he went on for over an hour simulating a fake joy so apparent that Chris could easily catch him acting.

“You haven't told me about your auditions yet.”

He knew he shouldn’t ask, you don’t ask such things of other actors, but if Tom had to be just his friend, so be it: no half measures, no special treatment. Chris would do almost everything to rip off that mask from Tom’s face and get an honest one.

Tom didn’t answer right away. He agreed with a nod for the cold beer that Chris was holding out for him, and took a thoughtful sip before smiling nonchalantly.

"They… went, I suppose."

"Yes, but they went well or badly? I know you do not like to celebrate in advance, but a couple of drinks are not a party. "

"They went. Not very well."

"..."

"They said I’m good enough, but apparently not as marketable, it seems."

"Marketable ...?"

“It means I’m not good-looking enough to justify the expenses, that’s all.”

Tom shrugged and gave him another of his strained smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He got up and went to the window to look at the city outside, all neon lights and no real stars in the sky.

"It doesn’t matter, I wasn’t hoping too much."

"Tom ..."

"No, really, it's all right. They can all fuck themselves. "

"..."

“So fuck you, Los Angeles, fuck your palm trees, and your high-priced women, and your fancy streets, for I am going home, back to - ”

"What – were you with, with a _professional_!?"

Chris stood up too, stunned. He didn’t know what to think or what to say, because that kind of confession wasn’t something he was expecting. Not from someone like Tom. Has it been the disappointment? Was he trying to shrug off their kiss?

"What? What are you saying!"

"You said that!"

"I didn't -no! I did not mean - of course not! It was a quote! "

"Uh?"

"I am reading _Ask the Dust_ on the tube, I was just quoting and -"

He had not finished the explanation, burst into a metal and horrible laugh, almost hysterical.

"I was just quoting. My father was right, I can’t even get angry or being sad without stealing someone else’s words. "

Chris knew that the intimacy – the physicality - of their friendship was not so reasonable or straightforward as he wanted to think. Tom wasn’t his only friend, in nearly 26 years he had made a lot of friends, even shared home and work with some of them. But with none of them accidents such as those that seemed to chase him and Tom ever happened. If they can still call them _mishaps_.

He didn’t know if he had embraced Tom when the broken sound of that laugh turned into a sob, or if it’d been the other way around.

They held tight to each other for the longest time, Tom’s breath came out in rugged sobs that he was trying to silence in the crook of Chris’ neck.

They were soaked in tears and sweat, but neither of them wanted to loosen the embrace. It didn’t matter. Chris stroked Tom’s soft curls without a word, he didn’t know how to comfort him, and hoped his arms and affection would be enough.

Chris inexplicably tried to put up some resistance when he felt Tom withdrawing. Chris watched him drying quickly his cheeks with the ball of his hands, then he gave him an embarrassed smile not daring to look at Chris.

"Sor -"

"Don’t say it."

"I’m being absurd."

"Who cares."

And then Tom looked at him again with his unreadable expression, a blank page on which he had not yet decided what to write on. The same expression he wore the night they met for the first time, or the night they went out together for the first time, the day they looked at Freddie’s photographs together.

Then it was like something infinitesimal broken, the edge of the page trembled, Tom sighed wearily, and looked down.

"Well, what I have to lose?"

Tom moved closer again, took Chris face in his still tears-damp hands, and kissed him. Again. And again Chris didn’t pull back.

Tom did, almost immediately. He didn’t avert his unreadable gaze, but didn’t do anything else, he remained silent and motionless waiting for a reaction. Even if he wasn’t giving away anything of what he was feeling.

Chris wanted to hit him for that single reason, because Tom always let Chris read him for a moment, then retreated in himself again, leaving Chris on unknown ground, alone with an unreadable map in his hands.

"Sorry."

"You always have to say it, don’t you?"

"You don’t say anything."

"Because you talk too much."

Chris kissed him again and it was not just a brush of lips, they were well ahead of that. And Tom didn’t kiss like a girl, didn’t look like a girl, he wasn’t delicate, wasn’t sweet, he wasn’t soft. He was jittery and hard, especially with himself. He was the ocean kissing the coasts on good days, to then devour them when the sky is wild. Chris had no excuse for what he was doing nor did he want one: Tom’s body and mouth left no doubts, he wasn’t languid or androgynous, and he liked it.

"I’ll never sleep on that couch, ever again."

"..."

"Ok?"

"Ok."


	9. Nine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tome needs to talk more and Chris... well, him too.
> 
> [...]And Chris was really upset with Tom because he didn’t want to feel like a teenager with his first crush, he wasn’t even sure he could call it a crush, because he was thinking about switching to boxer briefs instead of lace panties, a crush is not enough to make you desire a body too much like your own in the wrong places. Chris had a lot of friends, a lot of very good friends, he knew Tom wasn’t one of them anymore. Calling him “friend” was not enough. It had been too easy to let Tom kiss him, and then kiss Tom in return, lie down in the dark with him, hold him all night, breathing his breath and his scent on the skin. It had been too easy to forget himself and play the coward, watching the sun rise and pretend the moon didn’t see anything, just because Tom wanted it like that.[...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the hugs to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

 

 

Chris felt like a teenager on a hormonal rampage again.

He was in Vancouver for two weeks, but his head was elsewhere. In a little flat in Burbank, to be precise, but he was also pretty sure he was the only one in that predicament: Tom was back in England to work on a tv series with the BBC, then he was set to go back in Sweden with Branagh, and – since day one – he refused to say even a word about their situation.

Tom refused to talk about 'them' for the entire week following the  _mistake_ : Chris was referring to what happened between them as the  _mistake_ again in his head, above all because he didn’t want to risk clinging on to false hope.

His mother would be with him within a few days, and Chris didn’t know if it was a good moment, because he did need her, but he was terrified of telling her what was happening in his life, too. The fact that his mum always asked him on the phone about  _that dear English lad_ , wasn’t helping. At all.

Because the  _dear English lad_ was a puzzle that he couldn’t solve, that didn’t want to be solved, and maybe Chris should have spent that entire week, and not just half of it, trying to talk to him. Because, for the other half, he’d just tried to get under Tom’s clothes. To take off Tom’s clothes. And he didn’t know if he should be feeling embarrassed of that desire, or because the need to carry it out was stronger than the shame itself.

“Chris, come back here! We have to shoot!”

“Yeah, sorry, I’m coming!”

He cut his hair really short for his new role, and he liked it, he liked his hair just like this, because it was easier to surf and swim. Without the fringe constantly over his eyes he could focus better, he could focus on actual important things, not how much  _he_ had seemed to enjoy slipping his fingers through Chris’ hair while they kissed.

He turned his head and looked around, he didn’t want to waste the opportunity, he needed to play his cards well; that film could be the shot he needed, fuck superheroes and titled directors. He didn’t need Branagh. Before he left for Vancouver, his manager informed him someone called from Burbank, and, for a moment, Chris did feel as if his heart would stop, because it was impossible his manager knew. Then he specified that marvel wanted to test him again: he tried not to hold his breath, though, because the first round had been rough enough.

That part of British Columbia was beautiful and wild just like only unwelcoming and uninhabited places can be. Spring was lukewarm and pleasant as a British summer’s end, but the winters were fierce and freezing.

Chris tried not to think about it, or anything at all. He worked on his scenes just giving a mild thought to what he had lost in London, setting his mind to what he could gain in Los Angeles instead.

Leonie was staying at his hotel with him, while Craig was in Los Angeles with Liam, helping him with his projects. His mother rehearsed with him, she pretended to be a frilly blond talking with Curt, then an old norse god, creating the right atmosphere to let him become the god of thunder.

That few weeks had been hectic, exhilarating, exhausting and terribly frustrating; he changed his mind about the new audition for Marvel every two hours, he didn’t feel up to do it, the humiliation of the first trial still stung. His mother urged him not to lose confidence in himself, even Whedon pushed him to try again, he knew what he was talking about, he said, Chris would be a perfect Thor.

He didn’t want to be humiliated before a man he heard swearing in an alien language about a fricking wall and the inability to find a good Irish bread in London. (1) He couldn’t find in himself the ability to own the script, he wasn’t able to grasp the character and, given the looks he received by the writers and production assistants the first time, they knew it. What could be change with Branagh there?

_He was angry_ .

And it was not the only role he was in line for, there was another movie on the horizon, the remake of a bad 80’s movie that he didn’t really want to do, but that could be a great opportunity: there was a lot of money at stake, Tom Cruise’s son already casted. Even Isabel, who would return to his life after three years.

Yet he didn’t care about any of this. He wasn’t afraid of seeing her again, nor feeling awkward. The only thing he felt embarrassed for was that – when the shooting ended and the lights went off, when all the voices died – he could only then be alone with his feelings and memories, and he ended inevitably to  _that_ week, in  _that_ apartment in Burbank, in  _that_ bed.

And it made him even angrier, because how could he face the new audition if he worked and didn’t rest? He felt like a teenager again, and he didn’t like it at all, because he was almost thirty, had a career to pursue, he had to add a star on an American sidewalk, it was not the time to chase delusions. His manager was right, he needed to focus and not let himself tangled up with anything, with anyone.

A week in a small apartment in Burbank could not and should not be enough to make him lose sight of his goal.

After all they hadn't even had sex, they hadn't even take off their clothes, not once, seven days pretending they didn’t rub against each other at night as thirteen years old boys in heat, that's all, that was what that happened between them.

And Chris was really upset with Tom because he didn’t want to feel like a teenager with his first crush, he wasn’t even sure he could call it a crush, because he was thinking about switching to boxer briefs instead of lace panties, a crush is not enough to make you desire a body too much like your own in the wrong places. Chris had a lot of friends, a lot of very good friends, he knew Tom wasn’t one of them anymore. Calling him “friend” was not enough. It had been too easy to let Tom kiss him, and then kiss Tom in return, lie down in the dark with him, hold him all night, breathing his breath and his scent on the skin. It had been too easy to forget himself and play the coward, watching the sun rise and pretend the moon didn’t see anything, just because Tom wanted it like that.

And he was angry because he could not help but pretending, days and nights to be being different people.

He was angry as he couldn’t allow Curt to be, because he could only be afraid in Chris place. He was angry as he didn’t know if Thor could be, but he didn’t care anymore. He was tired, he just wanted to end things as soon as possible, he just wanted someone to give him an honest “no” and not just absurd sidelong glances and silences.

He was angry when he flew to Los Angeles, on the taxi to Burbank, and when he entered an ugly nondescript building. He had been kept waiting for hours when he found himself thrown before Branagh: he screamed to his face all the frustration of a God forced to immobility, of a man forced to indecision at the behest of someone else.

"Damn, boy, where did you hide the first time? Last audition sucked, but watch yourself now! I just knew you needed to be tested again, I couldn’t be so wrong, what the fuck! "

When he flew back to Vancouver the next day he was still angry, but Branagh’s words had been the balm to his Ego, and he needed it. A lot.

It was easier to come back to work, afterward, even if that “No” hadn’t become yet a sure “Yes”. It was a start, he could go on from there.

Whedon seemed pretty sure he would make it, and Chris strongly hoped he was right, he really wanted that role, even more now that he knew he had a small chance of getting it. He could do this. He was not like Tom, just acting wasn’t enough for him to be happy, he wanted to fly high enough to touch the stars, he wanted the lights, he wanted to become one of them.

But he didn’t want to think about Tom, he never wanted to see him again. He would like to be able to want that, actually. Stupid Englishman who thought he was the only one to have problems with their situation.

But it was hard not to when the job ended, and after greeting colleagues and staff he would return home –  _a real one finally, not an annexe_ – alone, with no one to keep him busy. When the days got longer and messages from across the pond started again out of the blue.

Messages that he didn’t want to answer, because Tom should have stopped acting like nothing happened, at least when there’s a screen between them. But he answered every single one of them, hoping against all odds to get at least one of the words he expected.

_I put on the pounds of muscles, when we’ll meet again you won’t recognize me. But the hair is a disaster as always._

Chris recognized him, and not just for the disaster he had on (and inside) his head. It was late June, and the heat of L.A. began to bite even Chris, accustomed to Australia and to the Northern territories’ deserts.

Tom wasn’t expecting him, he had not asked Chris to pick him up at the airport and Chris didn’t offer, but it was not hard to find him, even amongst the chaos of the LAX International Arrivals. And maybe it was the surprise that let Tom lower his guard, or maybe Chris had simply misjudged his silences, because Tom had basically abandoned his suitcases to run to Chris and held him so tight and for so long that they attracted some oblique gazes from curious travelers.

"I missed you."

And Chris seriously mulled over punching him on the nose. Tom didn’t talk to him for weeks, then reappeared out of nowhere only to announce his return for an audition for a role they both wanted, just to then cling on to Chris for dear life?

"Do you have a reservation?"

"Yes, a hotel somewhere in Sherman Oaks. In this period it was a miracle to be able to find a free room. "

"You could have asked me."

Tom didn’t answer, but he didn’t looked down either, even though it was clear why he had not asked Chris to host him. And Chris objectively understood him, but since they had thrown common sense to the winds a lot of time ago, he didn’t feel very compelled to go along with his fears. He is not yet ready to hear Tom’s “no”.

"Come, I'll take you there. I have a car. "

Tom talked throughout the journey to the hotel, he told him little about his work but a lot of the friends they left in London, he went out a few times with the bunch of lunatics that invaded their home almost an year earlier, and Freddie pined for Chris absence. Even Brannock, Chris remembered Brannock, didn’t he? The Welsh surfer he met at the housewarming? He had been surfing in Portugal, he said that Chris must try the Atlantic waves.

Chris heard him halfheartedly, didn’t speak much, just answered indolently to Tom’s questions about his latest job. Chris didn’t even talk about Whedon or the new audition, he didn’t tell him about Branagh’s words, nor asked anything about Tom’s future projects.

They hadn’t touched once, not even by mistake, since the embrace at the airport. When they entered the small hotel room Tom looked calm and as relaxed as a wax copy of himself, and Chris wasn’t feeling any more comfortable. Where was the easy companionship they had since the early days of their friendship? Where was the naturalness, the effortlessness with which they could talk, laugh and be silent without embarrassment?

The crippled intimacy of that single week seemed to have destroyed rather than strengthened what they had had.

Chris watched him place the suitcase on the bed and open the room’s window. Tom looked like a marionette tossed around by un unfit puppeteer, he felt embarrassed and awkward moving in that room where they could hardly breathe, air so thick with anxiety.

"Who are we kidding? We're not friends."

Chris had surprised even himself, he hadn't meant to say it out loud, but it was the truth and it felt liberating to be able to say it, he wanted to face the consequences there in daylight.

He didn’t budge even before Tom’s aghast expression. He felt bad about it, but he managed not to break eye-contact.

"You know it’s true."

He reached Tom with a few resolved strides and closed Tom’s mouth with a kiss. Chris didn’t want to hear excuses, he preferred to risk a blow.

That didn’t come: Tom reciprocated almost relieved, careless that outside the sun was still bright.

His body really had changed, it felt massive and strong, his hair longer and unruly, but Chris did not care, Tom was a thousand masks and was one: Chris wanted to shed him of every layer to get to the core and call it “mine”.

When Tom slowly drew back, Chris half expected a new setback, new silences, new sidelong glances, another “maybe” that he didn’t need.

"Jet lag is killing me. And I stink, as you can smell. "

"Not that much."

"Funny."

"So, you have the new audition tomorrow, haven’t you?"

"Screen test, actually."

"Oh. Well, then we have to celebrate, right? "

"The part is not yet mine, Chris, we're in the same situation right now. Can I go take a shower now?"

"Can I come with you?"

"No, but you can wait here and call room service."

"..."

"..."

"It 'a step forward at least."

Tom smiled at him, but he did not say anything else. Chris still felt at the mercy of a demagnetized compass, but while Tom was getting ready for his shower, he could at least have the weak, comforting certainty that he wasn’t lost alone.

 

 

 

 

Notes:  
(1)Branagh is from Belfast, Ireland. He had to leave his city during the Troubles of ’69, a sort of civil war between the Unionists and the Nationalists. The – so called- Peace Walls that divide the city were built that year.  
Oh, and it seems that Branagh cusses A LOT. 


	10. Ten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freddie takes the floor.
> 
> [...]Freddie’s undying crush begun the night they met, at the party for his twenty-first birthday. At the time Freddie was dating a beautiful French dancer, almost thinner then himself, a health freak who refused to drink any kind of alcohol for fear of gaining belly-weight. A pain in the ass, to be honest, and not of the good kind, but he was so handsome that it hadn’t been a problem for Freddie; Freddie broke up with him the next day, without a second thought.
> 
> After two years he was still pining for Tom, because despite the crowd of admirers, boyfriends, even some one night-stands here and there, Tom had been the first and last thought in his mind, always. The fact Tom hadn’t had a steady girlfriend in that period didn’t help him giving up, as he supposed the presence of a third person would have done.
> 
> But then the third person actually came into the picture and for Freddie it had been a cold shower.[...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault! Love u hun! <3

_(Freddie takes the floor.)_

 

 

 

Freddie always knew he was handsome, since he was a child. He wouldn’t say he was exotic, not in such a multicultural city as London, but his clearly Mediterranean features weren’t those of the average English population. Freddie’s eyes were so dark they looked almost black, a plump mouth and the profile of a Roman statue; he would have been a perfect model if only he hadn’t aspired to become a photographer instead.

Freddie had always known he was beautiful just as he had always known – as far as he could remember – that he wasn’t interested in women. As in the best dramatic traditions, his father didn’t take the news very well, but, having other sons to be _proud of_ , he didn’t make too much of a fuss; after few months of not speaking to him, and a threat to visit the notary, Freddie’s mother smoothed things over between them. All that happened with such strict discretion and calm that Freddie felt almost suffocated.

He was born from his father’s second marriage to a young Irish beauty. His dad was an Italian Jew refugee, old enough to remember the London rebuilding after the Nazi’s bombing, and Federico (because that was Freddie’s real name) was seen by the Auerbachsclan as proof that the Catholic God was just a distant relative of the Chosen People’s one, and they always had a pop at poor dear Annabell, who’d given birth to only  _daughters_. Unlike Esther, God rest her soul, that gifted the family with three sons, strong and  _healthy_.  Assholes.

Freddie was gay and, as in the best farce tradition, he fell in love with his best girlfriend’s straight brother, he was such a stereotype.

He couldn’t even say that he was blinded by Emma’s brother attractiveness, because yes, Tom was pretty, good-looking in his own way, but let’s be honest, Freddie had had much better looking guys. _And yet_.

Tom totally had him when he opened his mouth. Not when they talked for the very first time, exchanging pleasantries: he completely stole Freddie’s heart when he started speaking about The Jungle Book. And not Kipling’s masterpiece, but the Disney movie! Freddie still wondered how Tom managed to sneak into his mind just declaring his love for a forty year old cartoon’s singing bear. And he had such a horrible laugh too, but how could someone resist laughing with him? And his smile light up all his face, he smiled with his whole body, he had such big eyes, and they changed colour like David Bowie’s, had a beautiful voice, and even drunk he could declaim in what Emma assured him was Ancient Greek.

Freddie’s undying crush begun the night they met, at the party for his twenty-first birthday. At the time Freddie was dating a beautiful French dancer, almost thinner then himself, a health freak who refused to drink any kind of alcohol for fear of gaining belly-weight. A pain in the ass, to be honest, and not of the good kind, but he was so handsome that it hadn’t been a problem for Freddie; Freddie broke up with him the next day, without a second thought.

After two years he was still pining for Tom, because despite the crowd of admirers, boyfriends, even some one night-stands here and there, Tom had been the first and last thought in his mind, always. The fact Tom hadn’t had a steady girlfriend in that period didn’t help him giving up, as he supposed the presence of a third person would have done.

 _But then the third person actually came into the picture and for Freddie it had been a cold shower_.

Freddie wanted to be a photographer. Not necessarily a fashion photographer, but his symbiosis with the camera started when he was really young, when he would steal his older half-brother camera, triggering diplomatic incidents that would drag on for days. Until, for his sixteenth birthday, he traded the chance to have a scooter with a semi-professional Canon with a full optical zoom. His first girl.

Even his career of choice had been a reason of friction between Freddie and his father, but in the end he came up trumps. Above all because his grades at Saints John were so low that leaving Cambridge had been the only alternative to the dishonour of being dismissed, the first Auerbach to undergo such a fate. The awful period he stayed in Cambridge most important physics faculty just gave him two convictions: numbers weren’t his thing, and Emma Elisabeth Hiddleston was his Mary Austin. (1)

They met through a guy that – _at the time_ – was the love of his life: a frisky Irish lad, Emma’s colleague on her Anthropology course. They were together for less than the proverbial three months, but Emma stayed and Freddie would always be grateful to… Martin? Marvin? Something like that.

And then Tom. Who was so cute, heterosexual, and the first guy he’d fallen in love with.

Until that July of 2008, Freddie had just loved him maybe not so silently, playfully courted him with faking jokes. All the while being light heartedly but courtly rejected, pretending not to lose a little piece of heart each and every time. But then Chris Hemsworth came into their lives and everything changed.

And it was all Tom’s fault, because he loved Chris Hemsworth so much, even if he was in such a ridiculous soap opera that made him look like a mannequin at times, Chris was blinding like the sun, Freddie could forgive him everything. Or so he thought.

Freddie didn’t realize what was happening right away, not when he met Chris for the first time at Mrs. Hiddleston’s home, because he was really trying not to explode in happiness at meeting his favourite actor. He didn’t notice even when he started taking pictures of Chris and Tom at every chance: a little red light kept blinking at the back of his head, but Freddie didn’t pay it any attention, he just wanted to capture those beautiful moments on camera.

Maybe _too beautiful_ moments.

It was only at the housewarming for Tom’s flat that he got a real sense that something was going on. Not consciously, but he felt the air around them was different, it seemed to acquire a whole new consistency when those two were together, were so close. And they were almost always close, too close, even for Tom’s standards, who was quite affectionate and physical with everyone. The charged atmosphere between them was so different that he found it almost impossible to take pictures of them, at first; because they were too close, so comfortable in each others company sharing air and skin. That had been his cold shower, because they were close, friendly and relaxed, and it had been as if they were kissing.

Freddie didn’t really have fun or photograph anyone else except them at the party, in a masochistic attempt to prove himself wrong. He had then looked at the resulted pictures a thousand times, had been about to rip every single one of them in thousand small pieces, before handing them up to Chris. They were so beautiful together he could weep. He did actually cry, but he was above all angry, because it wasn’t fair: he had courted Tom for two years knowing he hadn’t any chance with him, and an Australian beau stole him away? What made him especially angry and sad at the same time was that they looked unaware of what was happening between them.

And Freddie tried to reassure himself that it was just in his head, really, but just a glimpse at any of those pictures was enough to dishearten him. He had never seen Tom look at someone like that. He had never seen Tom so comfortable with someone else, touch someone else so much. He wasn’t like that even with Charlie.

 _Why couldn’t it be me_?

All he could do was complain to himself alone in his room, because he couldn’t talk to Emma, he couldn’t reveal her brother’s secret. A secret that Tom probably didn’t even know he was hiding.

It was the first thing he learned when puberty had struck and left him gawping while looking at the half naked body of a Californian surfer; Freddie was twelve years old and was on vacation with his family in San Diego. He was relaxing on the beach after visiting Sea World, and in that moment he definitely said goodbye to his childhood and of all hopes to be like the strong and _healthy_ sons of Esther, _God rest her soul_. His sister Miriam – three years older than him – looked at him sideways, but hadn’t saying anything, she just took his hand and, pointing at the sunset behind the surfer, said: “ _It’s all so beautiful, how could someone not like what we are seeing_?”

He would like to talk to her in those moments, but Miriam was abroad, finishing her medical studies in Harvard to be as far away as possible from their father’s shadow.

Tom was in the U.S. again. With Chris. They were all alone in Los Angeles, they would be for weeks, and Freddie couldn’t help but moon over those two together, imagine what they were doing. If at last – so far away from home – they would loosen up. Would they really kiss, then? Freddie knew he was toruring himself, but he just couldn’t let go of that simple thought, he went there again and again, sober or drunk. Nothing helped.

“Good God, what’s that long face, rain ruined your photos?”

Freddie was abruptly taken aback. He was in a small pub somewhere near Black Friars bridge, it was a little past five p.m. and the sun had already settled. Damn winter.

Since the night’s party – that damn party – at Tom’s house, Bran became a near constant presence in their friends group, he was part of it at that point. Freddie never paid much attention to him, but he was a nice guy to talk too. Bran and Chris, though, had become fast friends, they kept in touch even now that Chris was in the States. All Freddie knew was that Bran was a stockbroker or something, but he had no idea what kind of job people like him did in the City. Bran was a handsome man, but really too old: he was about thirty-five, maybe? And Freddie could understand why Charlotte had picked him up and dragged him to Tom’s party, but for Freddie he remained a weird and decidedly too old guy.

"Did you cut your hair?"

"You really have an eye for details. I guess that's the first glass then. "

Bran pointed at his whiskey, and no, it wasn’t the first one. But he didn’t have to explain himself to anyone, it was nobody’s business if he wanted to get wasted at tea time. But Bran looked good without that horrible long hair that made him look like an old squatter, he looked fine in his Armani suit – because that was an Armani he was wearing – even if he made him look even more grown up and mature.

"Shouldn’t you be at work and do ... whatever a broker does."

Bran chuckled and then sat at his table without asking for permission, as he always did, as Freddie definitely hated: in spite of everything, he was raised as a good Jewish boy by a good Catholic girl (and by orthodox and asshole-ish aunts), if there was anything he could not bear - _if he was not in the mood for it_ \- it was rudeness. He gave him a dirty look, but Bran just smiled at him and called a waiter to order a beer. _Typical_.

"I always come here before I get home: I work ten minutes from here and I'm an associate."

"Should that tell me something?"

"It means I'm the boss, pretty much."

"Uh-uh. I'm really impressed. "

Freddie was being an asshole and he knew it, as he knew that Bran didn’t deserve it. He had always been kind to him, sometimes even a little too much. But at the same time that kindness bothered Freddie, made him uncomfortable: Bran was really attractive, but he wasn’t his type, nor Freddie wanted him to be. Bran was not like Tom, he was dark and brawny where Tom was fair and light, Bran was stoic and sure where Tom was an explosion of energy and insecurities. And he was so old-fashioned, too old, and maybe had a penthouse in Kensington and a eighty thousand pounds BMW, like the good speculator he was. Just like his father and his older brothers, all bankers and barristers. _Terrible_.

He didn’t need to take a fancy to another straight guy, even worse, a straight guy who was so alike the strong and _healthy_ men of his family. It was a cliché he wasn’t interested in, Oedipus complex was not his thing, thank you very much.

Freddie actually knew why he lost his mind for Tom, and it was his almost split expression, as if he hadn’t decided yet what to be and what to do with himself: it was like his face was indecisive, unfinished, dramatically split between past and future. With no present. Tom was so sweet and good in his generosity, but cruel in his indifference: he wasn’t good at pretending once getting down from the stage, reading him was just a matter of getting the right key. Freddie knew Tom never considered him, not even a good friend, but Freddie had been delusional enough to hope to be able to take care of him, to be able to help his face find the right time to live in.

But Bran just shrugged lightly with the same smile on his lips, and Freddie felt even more uncomfortable.

“Bad mood doesn’t suits you. Your day been so terrible?

"I'm not in a bad mood."

"Uh-uh."

Freddie gazed at him drinking his dark beer, then wiping his beard and mouth with the back of his hand. He never noticed Bran was actually more a redhead than a brunette.

Outside, it was still raining insistently, winter didn’t want to leave yet.

"In California it is at least twenty-three or twenty-four degrees: our two lovebirds are so lucky, don’t you think?"

"What?"

"Tom and Chris. I hadn’t heard from him lately, but Tom is still with him in Los Angeles, am I wrong? "

He wasn’t wrong. His allusions weren’t wrong, even though Freddie had hoped he was the only one who’d noticed Chris and Tom’s chemistry. But he hadn’t been the only one, and that was another blow for Freddie, it was making it even more real.

But he was not yet ready to give in, he was tipsy enough to deny the evidence.

"Last time I checked Tom was straight. And unfortunately Chris doesn’t play for my team either. As much as I dislike it, sometimes two guys really are just mates. "

Again that calm, condescending, almost sardonic smile; Brannock Wells was seriously beginning to grate on his nerves with his conceited big brother’s attitude.

"It's true. Chris and I are surely friends, and that’s because he doesn’t look at _me_ as he would like to bend me over the first available flat surface.

Freddie almost spat out the white wine he was drinking at the point. Bran was sipping his beer as if nothing happened, as if he hadn’t just forced Freddie to visualize his worst nightmare.

So he just gulped the last of the wine in his glass and hastily stood up, snatching away his jacket and bag from the chair.

"Okay. I'm not drunk enough for this conversation. "

But Bran caught his wrist stopping him, forcing him to sit down again.

"I'm afraid you’re already halfway there."

"I'm not your business, and I want to go away."

“You’re not, but you can’t tell me to not worry about you either. If you want to be left alone, I’ll go. But you need to stay here and try to sober up a little before going home.”

"..."

“I would ask you over to work off your anger too, but I suppose you wouldn’t appreciate it. As wouldn’t my furnishings.”

“I’m not some b-movie poofter, you wanker.”

"I know, but you like to pretend to be one when it suits you. It's all paid here, I left my card at the desk, I'm a regular customer."

“You didn’t have to do it, I can pay for my drinks.”

“I know, but I wanted to. So shut up.”

Bran had never raised his voice, nor stopped smiling at him. Freddie just wanted to yell in the middle of the room, storm out without paying the bill and have sex with the first idiot he met in the street. Because he didn’t want to calm down, didn’t want to give up his hopes, he still wanted to be helplessly in love, he wanted to be desperate without a cure. He wanted to go home and let Emma hug him, sleep curled up against her and ask her to marry him, make her laugh and be pampered until morning. Tom was in Los Angeles and was in love with someone who wasn’t a woman and didn’t want to be just a phase. Tom was in love with someone who was a man and wasn’t him.

_Why not me?_

"Hey, come on, it’s all right."

Freddie didn’t noticed he was about to cry, nor that Bran had never stopped talking to him. He hadn’t been aware of Bran, nor of the sting of tears under his eyelids. He didn’t notice when Bran moved closer, when he had stopped jeering and being a stone-cold broker altogether. Freddie hadn’t realized before Bran had such a beautiful voice.

"It's not all right, I don’t want to be alone. Take me with you, I’ll behave."

He woke up the next morning in one of Bran guest-rooms. He didn’t remember anything of the previous evening either. He was wearing just his briefs and a large, horribly colourful, t-shirt. On the bedside table there were a couple of aspirins and a large glass of water.

The house was empty and it was completely different from what Freddie had imagined. It wasn’t a magazine worth penthouse nor a bachelor loft, but a real home, two storey, and (a lot of) guest rooms. Even a well-kept backyard.

The real surprise, however, was to notice how much the decor was _sentimental_. No interior designer had laid a hand on that home, and it showed; the furniture was most likely chosen randomly, but the pieces were well put together. The big white wall behind the couch was covered with photographs and collages, as were the photo frames above all the shelves and cupboards; all Bran’s life in glossy little rectangles. There were seascapes, crazily high waves with even crazier people riding them, portraits of ageless people with salt burned skin. His latest shoots were put lower on the wall, and Freddie could see all the boys and girls of their crazy group, Charlotte – who was probably Bran’s girlfriends at that point – was obviously there, and so were Emma, Tom and Chris. Freddie could look at himself in many photos. They weren’t well done, light was all wrong, the focus on many of them was awful, but as for the décor, they were emotional shots. Such a strange broker.

From that day, Freddie begun to really listen when they spoke, he found out that it was a good antidote for his pain. Bran had a beautiful voice with a slight North Welsh accent, and he was nice and gentle, despite being a ruthless speculator. Emma seemed happy they’d become friends, she even told him to invite Bran for dinner sometimes, just the three of them.

"Are you trying to get rid of me? I don’t think Charlotte would be happy. "

“Charlotte doesn’t mind, believe me. And it's time you stop being so self-centered and start looking at someone who’s not so much like you. Bran is a good guy, and even if he won’t shag you, he could still solve your daddy’s issues for sure.”

"Emma!"

“What!? It’s true. Since you met Tom, Bran is the first guy you've actually, I dunno, listened to? You can’t live on quick relationships, waiting and hoping my brother will nod at you. It won’t happen, Fred.”

"Don’t call me Fred."

"Do you prefer Federico? You know that I'm right. I'm sorry to be cruel, but if there's one thing you just didn’t want to understand about Tom it is that he doesn’t have such a high opinion of himself to be able to look in a mirror without experiencing discomfort. _You_ make him uncomfortable, Freddie, you are too much like him for Tom to accept and really look at you, if you were a woman it would be the same. "

 _But he doesn’t want a woman, he wants Chris. Even if he doesn’t know it yet_.

He didn’t say anything. He let Emma embrace him tightly, and cursed at himself because he agreed with his relatives; if he was a strong and  _healthy_ man he would be happy, he’d been so lucky to find his Mary Austin so soon, everything would be great. Instead he was a stupid faggot who always fell for confused heterosexuals that never chose him anyway.

The confused heterosexual came back from the United States at winter’s beginning. He wore the look of someone who’d been torn away from civilization and left alone without a map in an impenetrable, foreign jungle.

Tom didn’t go out much with them after his return, he shut himself up in his flat with the excuse to rehearse for his next role, but it was obviously a pretext: something happened in Los Angeles, something that upset Tom so much that his face was like a clean paper sheet, gone was the eye looking at the past, gone his tension to the future. There was just strain.

“I thought the wrong Hiddleston was out of your mind, at this point.”

Bran had the awful habit of breaking the thread of his thoughts when he most needed it, but Freddie would never admit it. They were at their usual Black Friars pub where their strange friendship had begun, but they didn’t arrange those meetings in advance. Bran was always there at six p.m., and Freddie didn’t think Bran ought to know that he spent almost an hour in the tube every day just to be there with him after his courses.

"I'm working on it, okay? It’s not easy to give up on the love of your life. "

"That’s a bit melodramatic, don’t you think?"

"You are a shark, what you could possibly know about feelings?"

"That they can be silenced or amplified by ocean’s waves, for example."

Another prerogative of that old Welsh nosey parker: he was able to leave him speechless with seemingly out of character and beautiful words.

"I’ll be in Portugal next week, in Ericeira there are beautiful waves all year around. Would you like to join me? "

"But it's still cold and I have no idea how to ride a wave."

“It’s March, down there the weather is warmer, believe me. And anyway, I could teach you. Or you could just ride _something else_.”

Freddie was about to take the stein to his lips, but his arm stopped halfway there. He opened his mouth, then slowly closed it, then did it all over again, speechless. Did he really hear what he thought he’d heard?

Bran’s expression hadn’t changed, he was sitting before him quietly sipping his dark beer while looking at Freddie, waiting for an answer. And Freddie felt the sudden urge to toss his mug on Bran’s stupid face and break his nose. What the hell did he thought he was doing? God, he was so tired of confused heterosexuals, he was beginning to regret the ghetto-isation he hadn’t (fortunately) experienced.

“I suppose that beer is stronger than you think, it would be better if you go home to take care of the hangover, you’ll see, the _confusion_ will pass.”

Bran raised a eyebrow, slightly puzzled, then began to laugh, and it was Freddie's turn to look confused.

"What?"

“Freddie, I wasn’t suggesting trading our firsts, believe me: you wouldn’t be the first one. Nor the second, or the third, anyway. "

"But ... But you're with Charlotte!"

"Actually, we just slept together. Once, at Tom’s party. Just that, never been together, but we’re on pretty good terms, she’s a great girl. "

"..."

"No, she wasn’t my first. Not the second, or the third, if you have to know. "

"Are you bi?"

"If you must. I do like Charlottes  _and_ Freddies, happy now?

"I don’t know…"

Bran sighed, still calm. With his ever-present, quiet smile on his lips.

"Tom will be at Brian's party tonight, won’t he? Maybe seeing him again would clear your mind. "

He stood up slowly with his gaze still on him, collected his things unhurriedly. He had not even drunk all his beer. He just stood there before Freddie for a moment, then took his chin with one hand, gently, and bent down to kiss him on the forehead, as if Freddie were a child.  _Or something precious_ .

And then he was gone.

Freddie remained silent and still, too surprised to know what to do. He hugged himself tightly, suddenly his pure white sweater wasn’t enough to keep him warm, he was cold. While his forehead was burning.

He would have liked to tell Emma everything, but she was out of town, back to Cambridge for an audition. She wouldn’t be his shield and his right-hand woman and, for the first time in his life, Freddie was tempted to give up a party.

But at last he went. Because Tom would be there and it would be the last chance to see him before his departure for a new job.

Tom was at Brian’s and was pretending to laugh with his ugly cackle while drinking too much, while brazenly hitting on an unknown brunette that Freddie had never seen. The alcohol hadn’t washed out the fear from his eyes.

Then Tom looked at him, and his stare was so cold and accusing that made Freddie’s blood run cold.

He made clear calmly, even from a distance, that he didn’t want to be photographed. And in that moment Freddie understood, he was sure he did know what had happened in the States, what had begun just there in London, and probably it really was his own fault. He wanted to sink, and then laugh hysterically.

Bran approached him just while Tom was doing the same, and Freddie didn’t think he would be so grateful to someone who was truly reminding him of how weak and pathetic he was. But he let Bran put an arm around his shoulders nevertheless, let himself be drawn to Bran’s side, he was actually glued to Bran’s side, acting as if he wasn’t ashamed of his cowardice.

Whatever Tom had intended to say to him was lost behind the courteous and forged smile he offered to Bran, behind greetings of circumstance.

“Finally we meet again! How was Los Angeles?”

"I didn’t properly visit it, but I didn’t really like what I saw, I must admit."

"And Chris, how is he? I haven’t heard from him for a while now. "

"He is ... He's fine. Yes, he's okay. He's in Canada right now, he's working. In Vancouver. "

"Ugh, North Pacific, it sucks. He won’t see a wave for miles, I don’t envy him. "

Tom tightened his thin lips in a strained smile, as if that was the last things he wanted to talk about at the moment. Freddie could understand him, could understand the uneasiness, even the fear before a conflict no one really wanted to unfold. He saw Tom look away and take his glass to his lips, his gaze again lost in the void. And in time.

Then Tom focused on Freddie again, on Freddie  _and_ Bran. And it was just in that moment that he seemed to realize the  _familiarity_ between the two of them, of the sort that Tom had already experienced on his own skin. But he said nothing.

"Charlotte didn't come? I don’t see her."

"I have no idea, maybe she was busy."

"Oh. I thought that … "

Bran just laughed at Tom’s frantic expression. It was clear he couldn’t care less of what was happening between Bran and Charlotte, but he felt obliged to at least show a little dismay at what he thought was a break-up.

“How come everyone’s convinced that Charlotte and I were an item? We shagged, _once_ : I’m amazed, I’m from deep oikish Wales, but I feel surrounded by prigs!”

Bran tightened his grip on Freddie while laughing, and Freddie noticed the growing discomfort in Tom’s eyes, he was now looking openly at them, his gaze shadowed by doubt. And fear.

Was he thinking about another party, months ago, of how Chris and him looked that evening? When they were always so close, when Chris touched him just like Bran was touching Freddie there before him? When Tom let Chris touch him, returning every contact?

“Well, if you hear from Chris you should tell him to ditch the far north and to head south: next week I’m going surfing in Portugal, he should try it too.”

"Yup. Sure, I'll tell him. "

“You meet the perfect wave just once in your life. It’s the toughest of them all and the most dangerous too, but it’s worth it. Losing it is the real tragedy.”

"..."

"I'm sure he knows it already, but it never hurts to be reminded."

Bran never loosened the hold on Freddie, nor had he stopped smiling gently, almost like an old benevolent uncle.

_The perfect wave_ .

Freddie didn’t have the courage to look Tom in the eyes. He was wearing another one of his edgy grins, and looked like he was about to cry. And Freddie knew every single one of his reasons to feel like that, because they were Freddie’s too. He would like to hug Tom and tell him that all would be alright, that he shouldn’t be so scared, that there was someone waiting for him on the other side of the wave.  _And there was someone that was waiting for Freddie too_ .

“We are going together to – what is it called, again? – well, this place in Portugal. Bran's going to teach me to surf.”

Bran then kissed him gently on the temple, and Freddie felt he could smile again. Of Tom’s surprised gaze, of his shy smile, of the fear he could still spy on Tom face; but he was strangely sure that that fear wasn’t the one he brought with him from the States anymore.

_Things change, Tom. Now I know it and I can let you go. You will learn too. And maybe you'll be able to do the same and let go._

 

 

 

Note:  
(1) Mary Austin has been Freddie Mercury’s first girlfriend. He was notoriously gay, but he always said she was his “wife” describing her as the love of his life, and, at his death, he left her a good portion (almost half) of his assets, royalties of his songs included. Actually treating her as a spouse. 


	11. Eleven

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Tom tells his side of the kiss's story.
> 
> [...]Chris moved to the States a few months ago and – despite feeling ashamed for the implications of the admission – he had felt relieved. For weeks, in London, he tried not to think about their friendship, about their companionship. Work helped, but Ivanoe’s replicas wouldn’t last forever.
> 
> He didn’t look at Freddie’s pictures anymore and though he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away, he hoped they got lost somewhere, someway.
> 
> Things were going pretty good for Chris, and he was genuinely happy for him. He maybe was a little bit sorry his career didn’t seem to start in the same way, but he couldn’t be jealous of Chris’ fortune.
> 
> Chris was almost always in his flat and often slept on the battered old sofa in the tiny dining room, and seemed unfazed about their neighbours’ gazes. Tom was happy it seemed he was the only one noticing them, it meant that his worries were, as usual, over dramatic. And ridiculous. [...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

Tom’s stay in America had been a disaster, an utter failure from the start till the end. He packed his luggage with expectations and optimism, _it’s time_ , he said to himself, _my time is coming too_.

He rented a tiny flat on an ugly Los Angeles suburb whose only perks where that he would live just a few tube’s stops from Marvel Studios, and was well connected with other great TV Studios.

Los Angeles wasn’t as he had imagined it and looked exactly as many films had showed: it was like ripped in two halves, exotic, brilliant, impersonal, devoid of any resemblance of history. Burbank was a suburb as many others if you didn’t earn enough to buy a dream on the seaside, and Tom always preferred the roughness of the Highlands anyway, so he didn’t have much trouble adjusting. It didn’t matter where he was living, just what it could mean for his career.

It looked like the first screen test he did for Thor’s role was good enough all things considered, because whilst there was the well motivated perplexity about his too thin body to overcome, the producers seemed impressed enough to give him time to re-frame himself, so yes, things had gone better than expected.

Chris moved to the States a few months ago and – despite feeling ashamed for the implications of the admission – he had felt relieved. For weeks, in London, he tried not to think about their friendship, about their companionship. Work helped, but Ivanoe’s replicas wouldn’t last forever.

_He didn’t look at Freddie’s pictures anymore and though he couldn’t bring himself to throw them away, he hoped they got lost somewhere, someway._

Things were going pretty good for Chris, and he was genuinely happy for him. He maybe was a little bit sorry his career didn’t seem to start in the same way, but he couldn’t be jealous of Chris’ fortune.

Chris was almost always in his flat and often slept on the battered old sofa in the tiny dining room, and seemed unfazed about _their_ neighbours’ gazes. Tom was happy it seemed he was the only one noticing them, it meant that his worries were, as usual, over dramatic. And ridiculous.

Kevin Feige told him to put on weight and muscles, at least thirty pounds, enough to swell his chest and biceps as much as possible before the next audition. They’d like to see him more like the drawings on the comics, not merely imagine it. It was fair enough.

He decided that he would waste no time in Los Angeles, and so he didn't, his agency provided him with addresses and auditions, to which he went as religiously as hundreds of other guys like him.

It’d been a disaster, always.

One after the other, they all went the same way.

_You're good, but you're not quite the type we had in mind._

Discarded.

_You're good but not age-wise enough for the role._

Discarded.

_You're good, but need someone more marketable._

Discarded.

_You're good, but, but, but._

Discarded, discarded, discarded.

He was never enough for any role for American television, and so they had only given voice to what his father had always told him, to what he had always known. He was not _enough_.

At this point in his life, he did not even know if his father would consider him man enough anymore, because America had only made him sadder, frustrated, disillusioned, and lowered his guard so much that he greeted Chris as a lover and not as a friend.

 _He wanted to sink_.

Tom had always been a physical creature, never had any problems in showing his affection: a hug, a kiss, a stronger hold, the closeness of a moment. He loved with his heart, his brain and his whole body, and he was not afraid, or ashamed, of it.

He had been kissed too soon, but he didn’t know it at the time, all he knew was the thrill of forbidden and the excitement for something he didn’t know the name of. He was ten years old, she was two years older, she made him kneel before her behind the cricket camp’s shed where their parents had played all afternoon, she ordered him to close his eyes, then gave him a wet kiss on his lips: Rosie had been so sweet and taught him to use his tongue too.

Perhaps it was because of that premature initiation – not even entirely consensual – that he set himself to always learn from his mistakes: he liked kissing, he liked sex, why was doing it wrong?

He never had problems because sex was natural, it’s even simple if you look at it from the right perspective. But what was the right one with Chris?

He knew he shouldn’t even imagine such things, he really tried not to, more than he liked to tell himself.

Because he’d never had a crush on a boy. Not even at Eton, when he knew some of his pals would fantasize about the rowing team members, or the older House Captain. His admiration never became a confused and innocent – because never satisfied – desire. And yet.

In spite of everything, he liked Chris Hemsworth immediately, even if Tom had feared for a moment that he was his mother’s toy boy, and then a new rival for her attentions.

Chris was handsome and seemed totally unaware of it, just like Tom pretended – on the contrary – he didn’t know that he wasn’t.

_“Let’s jog together.” “Tell me about your favourite films.” “Come and live with me.”_

Thinking about it, those few words had been the supporting beams on which their friendship had been based. Or so he thought.

Then he had only thought it was Freddie's fault.

It had been easy to think it, even natural: Tom always hated to look at himself through Freddie’s eyes, and Freddie forced him, shot after shot, to contemplate a someone that Tom had been struggling for years to hide under the skin of new roles.

But Chris was all he was not. He was beautiful, self-confident, serene: an unmoving mountain and a safe place on the map, just like he felt like a spring torrent, a rill, a stagnant pool.

What had happened in that tiny Burbank flat didn’t make any sense, because sharing a few weeks of their life, a few stolen images, should not make so much of a difference, should not completely erase a whole life. Yet it was so. Yet Tom wasn’t able to not return to habit and deny the reassuring feeling of familiarity in a kiss.

Being with Chris had always been so simple, Tom always being drawn to an inexplicable feeling of comfort from his closeness, an indefinable sense of serenity. He was like a lighthouse before the stormy sea Tom felt inside. Still, Chris was a beacon in the dark ocean, Tom only saw the circle he illuminated; what was left was a medieval night full of unnamed monsters, and having just a faint glimpse of what was out there was almost as scary as ignorance itself.

Tom knew that it was no one's fault, not the States, not Chris’, not Freddie's fault, it was just his fault, but to keep repeating it to himself didn’t help him stay out of the awkward bed he no longer wanted to occupy alone.

He spent his days telling himself that they couldn’t keep doing what they’re doing, that he should change his plane ticket and fly back to London immediately, and Chris – who said nothing, who was so silent and indulged Tom in his awkward attempt to change topic – seemed to agree with him; it was all wrong.

And yet, when darkness came and lights were turned off, when he slipped under the sheets leaving Chris enough space to lie down beside him, Tom was able to put a hold on shame and common sense for just few minutes; he couldn’t tell for sure, but Tom was almost positive it would always be him to give in first.

And that was a low blow to his pride.

Chris didn’t say anything. Even after, with the sheets pulled away and the mess between their bodies, when Chris didn’t let him go and held him tight, his head on Tom’s chest. Tom never had the strength to push him away. Never really wanted to.

In the morning he made coffee before going out, and Tom could not even look at him. Because Chris did not say a word, nor did anything to get closer: Tom only asked for a kiss to convince himself that it was not all in his head, that it was not just him, to convince himself that it was not all wrong as the most rational part of himself kept screaming.

Chris had said nothing even the day he actually did fly back to London; they would both return to their jobs and that week would be buried amongst embarrassing experiences not to repeat. As it should be. As Tom wished for - but didn't really want to wish for.

 _And in London he met his father again_.

One of the things that in the eyes of his many friends - including those of divorced parents, at least - had always been wonderful, was that it was not only civil, but a friendly relationship that his parents had always entertained, since the ratification of divorce. Even Tom had thought it was a blessing, that he had been more fortunate than many others, there had been no legal battles for custody, nor the total abandonment of either of the two parents.

His father, in his own way, continued to be a present parent, attentive to every needs of his children, whether they wanted it or not they had it: it’d been pointless to keep saying that he didn’t care how many soccer fields Eton had, Tom _needed_ to go. It did not matter Sarah was not apparently like their father, that what really mattered to her was to have a nest and chicks to take care of: Oxford was the only way, she did not need stable relationships and love before a degree, a family could not be balanced when striving for excellence.

At times Tom had wished his parents didn’t have such a good post-divorce relationship. He would have preferred it if they’d fallen apart completely, giving their children the opportunity to break away from the sticky amber of a father that was like a judgmental deity.

James Norman Hiddleston was perfect and Tom knew it, his sisters knew it, and for that reason his judgment would never be benevolent. So Sarah had fled to India to find her Knight, Emma – who fortunately came too late to save a marriage that was relentlessly unravelling for years – just decided to look for another role model for herself and another male figure in her life, and Tom lightly made fun of her and – in his heart – loved her even more for choosing him. Little baby Emma, who nicknamed him _Broom_ , who introduced odd new friends and questionable new boyfriends to Tom before anyone else, that wanted to follow his path and even his career choice.

So his father was in London because shortly it would be Diana's birthday and it was a recurrence that he never forgot and they still celebrated as old friends, even though, at that point in their lives, there was a Brian and a Martha too.

He was in London and Tom knew he couldn’t avoid meeting him and talking to him and letting him weigh in on his image and aspirations for the umpteenth time.

_"Now you really look like an honest Scottish farmer."_

And perhaps there had been no acrimony or malice in his father's words, but they hurt so much that he had to hide his face in a cup of tea pretending to divert a conspiratorial laugh, all of a sudden uncomfortable in the new muscles underneath the fabric of his shirt, muscles he had felt so proud of, now aware of his awkward movements and of his too long hair, embarrassed in that new body in which he did not know how to move.

_He wrote to Chris that same evening._

He could hold back Chris’ image without him close, it turned out to be too impalpable with no words to anchor it to; perhaps Tom should thank him for the silence, for the upsetting stillness that followed their badly consumed sex, because it helped Tom dispel the colours of his face and the warmth of his smell. And Buckinghamshire’s fresh cut grass, dust and spring colours, helped him blur the contours and flavours of a week to forget. Work claimed a primacy that he was once more glad to grant it.

Tom knew that they didn’t need to see one another again at that point in their life and career, and maybe that was just what Chris was counting on after the _accident_. Only one of them would nail Thor’s role and the opportunity of a lifetime, after all. Their careers would never brush again, as well as their lives.

Yes, if he just kept telling it often enough, Tom could convince himself that it’d been just a parenthesis of madness, a new – stupid, God, so stupid – experience that might be useful for a future role. He would convince himself that he didn’t miss the peace and tranquillity he’d experienced with Chris, that it wasn’t sorrow that tightened his chest.

But that night he just couldn’t take it anymore, he threw to the wind all the hard work he was doing to be ready for the next screen test and gulped down so much chocolate whilst washing it with half a bottle of scotch, that he could barely contain the nausea afterwards. And he knew it wasn’t the wisest of decision to eat and drank so much after making a temple of his body, nor contacting Chris again in his current state of mind.

He was so tired and objectively realised the ridiculous image of a Scottish farmer with no perspectives reaching for an Australian surfer who had probably better things to do, but alcohol had done its duty, as had his reminiscences of RADA courses: he’d never sent a faker and happier message than the one Chris received that night.

He had unexpectedly received an answer. And so they started messaging again until the day Tom was due coming back to LA. Where Chris was waiting for him at the airport, and Tom couldn’t believe his own eyes.

And, as always, Chris had completely destroyed any form of self-defence he had hoped to have just with his presence. The only thing Tom could do was abandon his luggage and run to him, forgetting all his best resolutions to keep distance, just like old acquaintances.

" _I missed you._ "

But he had just made a fool of himself, and Chris looked about to tell him, but once again he choose silence instead. He didn’t say a world, just asked about mundane matters. Chris seemed to have regretted his thoughtfulness, and Tom had to agree with him: he’d been so stupid and he had lost the friendship they had built.

What Tom did not understand was why Chris did not leave. Because it seemed obvious he was not even interested in what he had to say and leave Tom speaking to himself, as in an unwelcome replica of a dreadful winter week.

And then Chris finally decided to open his mouth to talk, and Tom had been tempted to punch him on the nose, because if he picked him up at the airport, if he’d followed him to the hotel just to gloat pointing out what he already knew, well, Chris could had saved himself the bother.

He still struggled to understand why he was trying not to laugh in the shower while Chris was waiting for him in the hotel room. A room in which they’d kissed again, and where probably a lot more would happen.

Tom didn’t understand what had just happened, what he hadn’t grasped in those long months when they were so far away and alien to each other, or even before. The truth was their bodies didn’t dovetail so well as Chris seemed to want to believe, but everything else certainly did, and Tom just wanted to think about the quietness that was washing over him along the shower water, the serenity of being accepted even if he looked like a Scottish farmer and not like a Norse god, even if his head was a disaster in and out, and he couldn’t help but be sure that his mother would force him to tell everything to Norman too.

He wouldn’t be able to explain to him why he was heading towards an unknown territory without a map again, he couldn’t tell what he was looking for, and he didn’t want to look at his father and see his disappointment again.

Sarah would be married next year and she wasn’t even thirty years old yet, in her father's eyes it was like throwing her Oxford’s degree to get lost in India. They couldn’t speak about Emma yet, at all. And Tom, when ever did he try to look like a man who knows what to do? Never, according to his father, Tom didn’t even think he knew who he was.

When Tom left the bathroom with his hair still wet and dripping on a wrinkled t-shirt, Chris was quietly dozing off on the bed, as Tom had seen him doing so many times in their London flat, or in Burbank. Everything almost looked the same, but all had changed. Because Tom had never sat before at Chris’ side, had never touched Chris’ hair, never touched Chris’ lips with his own in such a quiet way.

The first step, it was all it needed.

 

 


	12. Twelve

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where Chris knows flattery will get him _everywhere_. (Dirty pun intended.)
> 
> [...]Nudity is never easy, for anybody, more so if the person you are with, and who is undressing with you, is the one who - _and you have not said it to yourself yet_ \- you really believe you are in love with. And it is not true that it's easier for a man, even if he is before another man. Because you can’t help but mirror yourself in your lovers body and look at all of the flaws you would rather keep hidden. Secret.
> 
> Sex is simple, love not so much. The unexpected, then, always ends up leaving you vulnerable.[...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

Nudity is never easy, for anybody, more so if the person you are with, and who is undressing with you, is the one who - _and you have not said it to yourself yet_ \- you really believe you are in love with.    And it is not true that it's easier for a man, even if he is before another man.  Because you can’t help but mirror yourself in your lovers body and look at all of the flaws you would rather keep hidden.  Secret.

Sex is simple, love not so much. The unexpected, then, always ends up leaving you vulnerable.

Tom had already fallen in love, he knew it, had felt it in his heart and bones years before, when Alexandra held him tight to her breast and let him silently breath out his frustration for a father who never screamed, but could chip with the prowess of a stonecutter at everything Tom was proud. It didn’t last, but he knew what it meant to be in love. Or so he believed.

For Tom, the days in the new continent were too short: the sun rose too late, it set too early, and the nights were long, although sometimes they seemed so short they could be enclosed in the time of a kiss.

Tom had already been in love, but this was never like that. He had never before experienced the peacefulness that dampened even his deeper rooted fears. He had never before felt his heart so calm, almost still, because he could rely on Chris’ heart to beat for his too; he had never thought it was a gift to be able to get so lost.

And Los Angeles was the best place to get lost, plastic city, indifferent to everything, above all to the stories of the umpteenth aspiring Hollywood star.    Tom and Chris were just two more faces in the countless that crowded the city; no history behind them, no family waiting for them, no friends to criticise them.  California was foreign land for them both, and they were together and free to be anyone they wanted to be, they could pretend to forget their roots and what they were before, choosing to melt into each other.

How long could it last? _How_ could it last?

Tom didn’t know, Chris didn’t ask. Silence became their friend, and darkness was no longer a necessity, because they went to the beach holding hands and nobody could recognize them, no one would ask anything, they didn’t have to explain what was happening to anyone.

And it was liberating, because neither of them would have known what to say, how to admit something they did not understand themselves; they were rivals with no animosity, friends with little in common, astonished lovers facing the unknown.

And at night Chris continue to sleep holding him tight with his head on Tom’s chest, or spooning him, anchoring Tom to his body almost as if Chris feared he would not find him again the next morning, giving Tom a vague mixture of annoyance and gratitude that Tom was a little ashamed of, more than of the nudity they shared.

_I’m not yours gimme space to decide to run away do you want me anyway even if I’m a mess?_

But Chris just smiled and everything was fine.

He smiled and suddenly the awkwardness of their still uncomfortable intercourses disappeared, sex that never leave them really satisfied, but which they couldn’t do without anymore, whether or not the darkness had fallen.

_We only need some practice. Do you mind?_

No, Tom did not, but what was trickier was the fact he was sure that even if he did mind, he would say nothing anyway, because he preferred the discomfort of a bed of thorns than to no longer smell Chris on the pillow beside him.

Tom had been raised - _trained_ \- to please others, to say _yes sir_ , to always try to make people happy  and expect nothing in return, were they teachers, friends, acquaintances, girlfriends, _his father_. The young man who walked through the gates of RADA was already an experienced crook, managed to smile and love on command as a good English gentleman: he was dancing as happy as the saddest of puppets for too many years, and he just wanted to stick a better face on the blank expression he met in the mirror every morning.

An expression Chris knew well, though. Tom had never been able to fully ‘perform’ his life with him. Still, despite spying under the mask, Chris remained; he had looked at him thoroughly, then smiled and kissed him anyway.

_How long could it last?_

They would go their separate ways soon, Tom returning to Sweden, Chris leaving for a job in Michigan, they both had lives and careers outside this unnamed bond. There were nothing forcing them to meet again, to remain in touch: they wouldn’t even be in the same continent, and Tom was barely able to keep in touch with his sister in India.

They didn’t have to do anything. And that notion was so upsetting that Tom was thinking of it even while Chris was sliding a hand between his legs, was kissing him everywhere, Tom kissing him in return. That annoying thought was always there somewhere in Tom’s brain and it didn’t want to go away, even if it was just another self evident truth. It really hurt.

“How in hell can you think in a moment like this? You’re giving me a headache too.”

Chris hand stopped his wandering hand and was now watching Tom intently. The sunlight filtering from the window seemed to rise just behind him and they had little time before being forced to get up. Chris was so beautiful he looked unreal, a real god indeed. Even while pouting.

"Stop laughing, I just woke up, we're naked, and it's not a nice thing to laugh at a man when he’s naked."

Chris was gazing at him, but Tom couldn’t really spy on his expression in the dim light. Chris’ hair was short and thick like a cat’s fur, so different from Tom messy and thin ones: Tom could keep sliding his fingers through Chris’ hair forever. But soon they would part, they would know the fate of their careers. _And what would happen then?_

"I have the screen-test today." Tom said abruptly.

"Uh uh."

"Maybe I should get up and get ready."

"It’s so early."

"Burbank is not around the corner."

Chris put his head on his chest and sighed disappointed. Then he stretched out like a cat until he lay down completely above Tom, before kissing him again.

Tom’s body was really strong, maybe not as big as Chris’, Tom had a naturally slimmer bone and muscle structure. Chris didn’t care either way for his new body, but he couldn’t figure it out if Tom liked it or not, if their body structures were or were not a problem. Because Tom didn’t say anything when something bothered him, he just tightened his lips a little bit, tightened his jaw, but Chris notice such subtle details in the dim light of dawn, even with his mind clouded by desire?

Chris still couldn’t figure out how to call what they were sharing, even after so many days and nights spent in bed together. And at times he wondered if Tom still missed the soft press of a breast against his chest, instead of the weight of want against his groin. But then they made love, and who cares if something was missing and something else felt was added? Practice was all they needed, practice would make them perfect. Wasn’t it the rule for everything?

Chris knew he wanted to be with him and it was enough for him, because Tom made him feel better, made him want to improve even more.  With Tom scratching the surface was not enough, you needed to dig long and hard if you really wanted to get to his heart: Chris loved the challenges and loved the ocean, and Tom was liquid and fluid as water, he had no colours yet was a rainbow, he could be as deep as an oceanic pit and frivolous as a shoal. Sharp-edged and impervious as a sea cliff, and sweet as sand.

After that screen-test, things would change, but Chris knew that life always move in different directions, it was not necessary to drift away so much that they couldn’t touch anymore. He did not want such a thing, no matter who would have the coveted role.

He let Tom go to the bathroom, and didn’t follow him as he wanted to, because Tom was right, Burbank wasn’t around the corner and Chris didn’t want to let him leave as much as he wanted to drag him to bed again. He would wait for news which at that point he was afraid to receive, because the uncertainty was killing them both, but it also cradled them in a limbo when they where alone together, giving them the excuse to want and care for each other.

Kissing at the door was not unusual anymore, just comforting, a familiar gesture. Chris liked the illusion of the life they managed to build in the United States, where they run together, shared meals and confidences, shared a bed, and woke up in the morning to start it all over again.

He had told his mother.

To no one else, just his mother. He was not afraid of his brothers or his father’ judgement, but Chris had felt the need to talk to the woman of his life before making any decision. Chris knew that Tom wouldn’t do the same. Not soon, at least.

Chris sometimes looked at him wondering if Tom was just waiting to go back to London again, to be sure he didn’t have to see him again to cut ties completely, making their weeks together just one of those things you do only in California, an experience to be archived or forgotten altogether. He was wondering if Tom would just pretend nothing happened rather than risk having to talk to his father about them.

That screen-test could tell all or nothing about them. Chris wanted that role with every fibre of his body, but he did not want to take Tom’s chance away. He had big hands, he could hold everything, he would even learn to hold back water. He did not want to let Tom go, nor abandon him to fears he knew he could not understand, but he wanted to help him to get rid of them.

His manager was picking on him again about the alleged _English girlfriend_ , and sometimes Chris had the desire to scream in his face that the assumed girl was in fact a boy, who probably was also thinking of breaking up with him.

Yes, he liked a guy, he was even having sex with him, exactly one of the first things his manager told him - in case - should be kept hidden.

His mother only asked him if he was happy.

Was he happy? Being with Tom was not easy, that’s for sure, he was an old stoic and a witty teenager, a responsible adult, and a hyper-active kid. Or a resigned child. He was the person he wanted to be with, and yes, he was happy with him.

Outside, darkness had fallen and Tom was not back home yet.

He had not cancelled his room at Sherman Oaks’ hotel despite being always in Chris’ tiny flat. When Chris asked him why waste such a lot of money, Tom had only replied with a shoulder-shrug and a half-smile. _It could always be useful_ , he said, _you will leave soon too_.

Tom had a gift for saying the wrong thing, despite his studies he wasn’t really good with words.

David Letterman was interviewing someone on TV when Chris heard light knocks at the door; Tom had never taken the spare key that he had  offered him, and at that hour of the night Chris thought maybe Tom would go back to his hotel instead.

"You really need to take the extra keys."

Tom didn’t allow Chris time to talk, just embraced him tightly then kissed him. He had a gentle sweet and alcoholic aftertaste on his tongue.

"Have you drank?"

"A bit. At the studios, not alone. "

"Ok ... What are you doing now?"

“Finishing what we started this morning? But not here on the doorway, let’s get in the shower. I’m all sweaty and dusty from the tube.”

And he kissed Chris again stopping whatever reply he could have. Chris let Tom guide him to the bathroom, while trying to undress without interrupting physical contact; it always worked in movies or novels, turned out to be a little more tricky to do it in real life.

They had found themselves breathless under the shower spray, still laughing between kisses. The shower stall was too small for two grown men, and Chris had bruises on his back as big as the tap knobs to prove it, but it never enough to put them off. And Tom had always been enterprising and uninhibited  among the sheets, but never frantic.

"Wait, wait a moment."

"Why?"

"Are we celebrating or is it a consolation?"

Tom gazed at him with an indefinable expression. The water slid over his eyes and flattened the curls that were so long that they overcome his ears.

"Are you serious?"

"Well ..."

"Would it make any difference?"

"Would it not?"

"Chris, how did you manage to keep a girlfriend for over a week? Seriously, how could you ask such a thing in a moment like this? "

"But you've been away all day, my manager didn’t call me, and you didn’t tell me anything either. So I don’t really know if we're celebrating or not after you bailed out on me this morning. "

Tom sighed and leaned heavily against him, placing his head on Chris shoulder. He was silent for a while, holding him tight, and Chris would kick himself for asking a question that he really should have been avoided.

Celebrate what? Assigning the party to Tom or Chris? Comfort who for not getting it, Tom or Chris?

"Tom -"

"It took a lot to contact my agency in London, the time zone is not easy to overcome. They made me sign something. "

"Then -"

"I do not know."

"But if you signed a contract it's done, isn’t it? You don’t have to worry about me, you're the best choice they could make and - "

“I signed _something_ , but believe me I really don’t know what. It’s just… Chris, there were no _buts_ , you know? For them I’m enough for something and… do we really have to talk about this while we’re naked? They’ll call tomorrow, can we wait till tomorrow?”

Tom was embarrassed. He was stuttering, he didn’t look into his eyes, his lips too tight. Chris recognized all the signs of his discomfort, he had learned them long before, when he had not yet imagined they would end up chatting under the shower spray in a tiny Los Angeles flat.

"Sorry."

"For what? It's my fault, I should have told you, it’s about you too. "

"No. I'm an impatient idiot, and lusting after your bum isn’t helping my brain’s ability. "

Tom laughed relaxing in his arms. Then he took the sponge and began to wash Chris’ back, squeezing even more against his chest, his head continued to lie on Chris’ shoulder.

“Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Hemsworth.”

“Oh, I think I’m already halfway there, instead, Hiddleston.”

They laughed together and turned off the water.

Their hair were still wet when they lay down in bed. They hugged silently, kissing each other with no hurry, gone was the frantic urgency of lust. They kissed and caressed each other taking their time instead.

And the next morning, when Chris got up several hours after Tom, he realized that he had finally taken the spare keys with him.

 

 

 


	13. Thirtheen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Life shouldn't be a stage.
> 
> [...]Eventually, Tom didn’t secure the role Marvel had tested him for so many times. They were together when that phone call arrived for Chris instead, when, confused and happy and disappointed and excited at the same time, a new call arrived for Tom too, because Thor has been found, but Loki, that role was meant for Tom, they knew he would be perfect for it, no need for an audition. Chris and Tom would be Thor and Loki, and it was just right. They were perfect.
> 
> Tom didn’t know how whatever was between them survived, he just knew that, when he came back to London and settled in his flat again, he lain on his bed alone and was overwhelmed by nostalgia; he was in his house and yet he yearned for home. [...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a big thank you to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

Time goes by and you don’t even realize it, one day you close your eyes and when open them you find yourself with a different hair colour, with stars that don’t shine in the sky anymore but all around you, the night is alive with thousand little suns, and from being a _Nobody_ , you suddenly learn you’ve become _Somebody_.

Time goes by and it’s so hard trying to keep up with every turn, every obstacle and coincidence, or even with the new beat of your heart.

The limelight finally lit up, and Tom was still wondering how it happened, how it was possible he wasn’t just a face amongst the others anymore, but a name in clear letters on a huge billboard held so high that it couldn’t even shadow the red carpet below.

  
Flashlights followed him with irregular and fast shots, yet the night was so bright they couldn’t hurt his eyes, the lights were so strong he couldn’t see anything past the elusive line of the red carpet.

An autograph, a second one, a third, then another. So many signatures and smiles and brilliant eyes in the dark beyond the border of the barriers, _another one, another!_      Palms extended, pretending he paid the fame’s due return, and Tom couldn’t believe that he was now wealthy enough to be able to fill each and every hand.

That was what he wanted.  Was he happy?

"You look like you’re about to be eaten. And I think you're late. "

His father lingered on his shoulders like a ghost and a memento, with the ever present contemptuous, half smirk on his lips, he was judgementally scanning the clamouring crowd before his son, and he looked like he was pondering about the reasons for such commotion.

 _I'm a famous actor, Dad, I'm Someone_.

He should have answered in kind, because he actually could this time.   But his tongue felt glued to his palate, his saliva became slime and his breath was gone. He also signed his own name incorrectly a couple of times but no one seemed to notice it, there was too much noise and maybe his father was right, because there was so much confusion, and where was he going, who was everyone looking for?    Not likely for him.

Sydney’s wind carried the smog tarnished smell of the ocean to the _Event Cinemas_ , soiled by the unbearable heat of too many spotlights which was beginning to burn the skin under his slap so much that he felt the corners of his eyes pinching.   He couldn’t breathe, how come the others couldn’t smell it?

“Tom, hurry up, they’re waiting for us to start!”

They were calling him from the cinema’s entrance, where his mother was amiably chatting with Leonie and Craig, Chris had already finished his triumphal tour and was gesturing at him to hurry, always smiling.  Jaimie was at his side, tall and beautiful in her candid dress; she was smiling, Ken was smiling, everyone was happy, because this was their night, their success after all the hard work, why shouldn’t they be happy?   Things had turned out to be much better than anything he had dared to hope for those two years earlier.

Chris was with him, they had both made it. And Tom couldn’t believe his luck.

In almost three years they’d chased each other through phone lines and planes, that Californian interlude brought them the certainty that their life had changed forever, and not only because of Marvel Studios.

…………………….

Eventually, Tom didn’t secure the role Marvel had tested him for so many times. They were together when _that_ phone call arrived for Chris instead, when, confused and happy and disappointed and excited at the same time, a new call arrived for Tom too, because Thor has been found, but Loki, that role was meant for Tom, they knew he would be perfect for it, no need for an audition. Chris and Tom would be Thor and Loki, and it was just right. They were perfect.

Tom didn’t know how whatever was between them survived, he just knew that, when he came back to London and settled in his flat again, he lain on his bed alone and was overwhelmed by nostalgia; he was in his house and yet he yearned for _home_.

He was being ridiculous and childish he told himself as he swallowed his tears in silence.

He didn’t call his mother, not right away. He was afraid of what she could read in his voice, and he couldn’t cope with it, not in that moment, talking to her would have made all too real.  And he would be forced then to include his father.

He did not want to include his father.

………………………

 

Tom hurried to join Chris and the others, apologizing to the handful of people he could not sign an autograph. His father followed him calmly, he had never lost his enviable Scottish aplomb; he had never lost control, nothing distressed him.

Tom felt the adrenaline that had maintained him up to that point fading, leaving his knees soft and his fingers trembling.  Fingers that he couldn’t even tighten in Chris’ ones, that he didn’t _want_ to link to Chris’ ones, because after all those years he was still afraid of what that need meant.

_They weren’t together after all, could it be otherwise?_

Leonie was still the only one knowing.  And that had been the cause of their first real fall out, because Tom was so angry when he found out that Chris had told his mother about them, his panic had turned into irrational anger and so he reacted unreasonably, as if he was ashamed of what they had shared until then, as if the bedroom was merely the stage of a journey began long before, but ultimately the only thing they really shared.

"We did it in the kitchen too, arsehole!"

And it had been such an unexpected, spontaneous and frustrated retort that it surprised them both. But Chris kept his eyes high, hiding the embarrassment for a silly and impulsive reproach spoken in disappointment and anger, all the while waiting for a sensible answer to his grievances.  Because it was true.  They sought and wanted each other everywhere, studied one another's body as a manual, as the script for the most important role of their careers, and they had eventually discovered the secret language of bodies they had foolishly thought too similar to meet with their desire.

And so they had laughed at that first quarrel, of their insecurities and their differences. They preferred to shake it off because they weren’t ready to talk about it, so they had laughed and set aside the discussion, apologized without meaning it, and they both knew it.

It was not the last confrontation on the subject.

Tom had occasionally seen Chris before the shooting began, and every time he had found him more impressive: his body grew, swollen and sculpted, while Tom's appearance seemed almost dried out, he retreated into himself, almost a sad metaphor of what they felt inside. They were no longer on equal ground.

Every time they met again Chris seemed more confident, happier, more exuberant and audacious, and he didn’t really care if someone could see or hear them, whether they were in America or London, for Chris it was the same thing.    It changed everything for Tom instead. He concealed his apathy in hunger, escaped interactions through miles run alone on the beach or on the streets, always on his own.

He had near stopped seeing his family, when his mother called he tried to seem as happy as ever, to be playful, even annoying with Emma, as he always had been. He didn’t want them realizing that something was irreparably changed.

The funny thing was it wouldn’t have been a problem for anyone to know he was involved with another guy. They would probably be astonished at first, but it would not be a problem, they would not stop loving him, they would not treat him differently.

Not even his father. Tom knew that Norman wouldn’t make a scene, would not threaten or scream, perhaps he would even accept the new course of his private life better than his professional one. Maybe.

His father probably would do nothing and tell him that though he was having sex with a man it would not change anything in the vaguely disappointed folds that wrinkled his eyes when he looked at Tom;  Tom was the failed project, something was always bound to jar the perfection of the picture his father had imagined.

And Tom was frightened at the idea of having to appear again before father's inquisition, he was thrown at the thought of that controlled voice, of those still hands, of the look of silent disapproval that he would face for the umpteenth time, because for the umpteenth time Tom hadn’t proved himself to be _reaching expectations_.

And how could Chris understand him, Chris had always proved himself to reach those expectations made of him for sure, no Nelson’s son had grown up faster and fitter than him, no Colonel Turner’s granddaughter learned Spanish faster and better than him, no cousin Philip founded a successful start up at just twenty four years old, no one else in the whole Great Britain was better than Tom at something in his father’s eyes.

_My name’s on the billboard, so? It doesn’t mean anything. I’m Nothing._

Emma couldn’t make it to the premiere, but Sarah was there: she’d finally dyed her hair in a fiery shade of red, as she had always dreamt since she was a teenager, motherhood made her even more beautiful, she had a new light in her eyes, finally fulfilled in every aspect of her life. She was chatting with Samantha, Luke’s wife and mother of two little and stunning valkyries, blond like the rest of their cheerful family.

The Hemsworths had puzzled his father since the very first time Tom had introduced them: Craig was nearly young enough to be _his_ son, and yet their kids were his son’s peers. How could such a thing be sensible?

It could have been the sensible marriage between his parents, instead! Tom felt always ashamed of that thought, because he loved both his parents, they were the best people he knew, yet theirs surely hadn’t been a match made in heaven. Tom remembered granddad Bill and granny Patty, their gardens in Suffolks and a house always open. Hearts always open, no need to carve up affection, they loved every single one of their children and grandchildren with all their hearts.

But his father was a scientist and believed in subdivision, Tom and his sisters had to fight to try to win a tiny larger bit of their fathers affection and esteem. That, in the end, was the same thing.

Tom hardly watched the film for which he’d missed his sister’s marriage. For which he’d changed almost every aspect of his life. He didn’t care anymore, not really, not when Chris was trying to take his hand, supposedly shielded by the darkness of the cinema. With the press, their friends and colleagues, with their _families_ so near, sitting with them. He wanted to scream.

Australia was not like America, it was too much like home, it was too much like London, there were too many friends and relatives, too many people that could demand explanations. And Tom was not ready to give any explanation even to himself, even though almost three years had passed and the time spent with Chris had been the happiest of his life.

 _Get ready guys, this movie will change everything for both of you, and it will be a hurricane_.

Ken had been right. Tom had hoped for it, but never really believed it could happened, at least not for him. He was just a name on the billboard, the less loved character, the villain.  He looked at Chris and it was hard not to be envious, just like Loki.   Not just jealous, but crippled by the great green monster that bites you while whispering in your ears that you don’t deserve what you have anyway, even if you crave it.     _Father has just one favorite, why is it never me?_

Chris was with his family and he hadn’t – thankfully – heard the exchange between Norman and Hopkins, Tom couldn’t bear the humiliation: Tom didn’t want Chris to realize how little he was worth.  Diana gave him a resigned glance, tried to be supportive because he should know by now what his father was like, Norman was easily distracted in social situations, he didn’t care for formalities, but Norman obviously knew how good Tom had been, they all saw it on the screen.

But Chris heard nothing and it was a good thing, it was all that mattered for Tom.

That night Tom had lost count of all the girls – _all so beautiful, dressed as gorgeous Barbie dolls on display, famous for unclear reasons_ – that tried to hook up with him at the after party.   _I’m nobody_ , he would like to scream at them, _and I’m a nobody who’s been regularly screwed by a giant stunning Aussie, blond like an abused cliché_.  God, at last Granddad Attie well waged those damn five pounds, but he would laugh at him anyway.

“Finally, I’ve found you.”

Chris joined him on the terrace of the hotel where Tom had miraculously managed to sneak off. He’s holding a glass full of something too strong for the humid cold of the Australian night.

“I was choking in there.”

Chris took the glass from his trembling fingers and drank without asking. Chris always did a lot of things without asking him, and Tom had to admit once more that it never bothered him. Maybe because the reason was that Chris was almost always able to anticipate what Tom needed most, whether it be a gentle look, a shared laugh, or avoiding a sad binge.

"I know, it's all so absurd, right? It's too much too soon, it doesn’t even look real. "

Sharing a fear too hard to say.

Chris gave him back the glass, lingering more than necessary before leaving it in Tom’s fingers. For a moment he looked about to bend over and kiss Tom, but the French doors were large enough to leave them less intimacy then they would have liked. Someone was looking at them, a couple of wineglass’ were raised in their direction, and Tom smiled back, pretending his heart was not about to burst in his chest.

"If we run to the hotel now, together, it would make titles in The Sun, right?"

"I'm afraid we couldn’t escape it."

"But later you’ll come in my room, won’t you?"

"Chris ..."

“Oh, come on. Tomorrow will be the first free day in weeks. No one will come for us, no one will notice. We could go to my house.”

Chris wasn’t a good actor.   No, that wasn’t right;  Chris wasn’t a good liar, he was under the delusion that people didn’t perpetually live on the stage, playing their role for the benefit of someone else. Chris always got off that stage when he was with Tom, no matter the circumstances. And so he wasn’t seeing the curious looks other than more a few nosy, obnoxious little birds who were pointing at them, pretending they weren’t recording every nuance of their postures. Chris was looking at him with clear affection and expectation, his whole body was stretched out toward Tom’s, ready to reach for him and hold him tight. And really, everything Tom wanted was to be in those arms again, at last, sleep next to him, and then wake up naked with Chris’ smell on the skin. But Tom’s eyes gave nothing out, because Tom was a great actor (liar!), and Tom learned very early to act – no, to pretend.   So, Tom remained relaxed, the glass nonchalantly held between his fingers, a condescending smile on his lips.   _What a beautiful night don’t you think this time here is really always nice!_

"Our parents are all here."

Chris sighed heavily, on his lips danced a half smile, something between resignation and amusement. Then he straightened his back, set his shoulder, and he really was Thor, so impressive and beautiful, even with his beard darker and the shorter hair.

"Is this really the problem? How's Charlie, again? "

The blow had been so unexpected that Tom’s fingers trembled.  Damn; why Tom wasn’t able to pretend completely with Chris?   He hadn’t heard from Charlie in months, almost a year.   He was definitely back from honeymoon, maybe Joy was already expecting and no one had told Tom.

He should have been Charlie’s best man at his wedding, he should have make a loud embarrassing speech for the newlyweds, he shouldn’t have missed it for the world, not even for Spielberg.

But then Spielberg truly had called, because he wanted him in a movie, no need for an audition, Spielberg wanted _him_.  And Charlie hadn’t forgiven Tom’s absence.

“I know my priorities, Tom, you know them too. I know the difficulties with what we can and cannot tell, who we can tell or not. But if the number is reduced to just two people, what is the point, how can we say we are together?”

Chris shook his head again, disappointed by Tom silence.

"I won’t lock my door tonight.   If you don’t come, it will be locked tomorrow."

Chris went back inside without adding anything else, not clearly not expecting a reply. His shoulder told of a man who knew what he wanted, the quiet smile on his lips was that of someone who was tired but still hungry.

Tom wanted to hurl his glass and shout at Chris that he didn’t need anyone, but it would be a half-lie and hard to take back. He didn’t need Charlie, but his absence hurt.

Tom didn’t really need Chris in his life, but he’d become the only constant he really wanted.

Tom had raised his eyes to the sky, sipping down the last drops of amber fluid in the glass, all in one gulp, almost without feeling it. The Sydney night was beautiful, the sky dotted with tiny stars and constellations he did not recognize, even if he truly studied it.

 

 


	14. Fourteen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [...]Chris wasn’t a kid anymore, he had overcome the magical and wretched age when Love needed to be complicated, even painful, to deserve the capital. Luckily.
> 
> He was no longer a teenager or interested in acting like one, yet he had given the infamous capital to a thirty-years plus-old kid who made everything complicated and painful, even when there were no reasons.[...]

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, thank you to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault!

 

Chris wasn’t a kid anymore, he had overcome the magical and wretched age when _Love_ needed to be complicated, even painful, to deserve the capital.  Luckily.

He was no longer a teenager or interested in acting like one, yet he had given the infamous _capital_ to a thirty-years plus-old kid who made everything complicated and painful, even when there were no reasons.

Because Tom was complicated and painful when trying to be sunny and light, and Chris was tired. Tired of waiting and being silent, tired of having be a performer in his own life even when away from the cameras.  And Sydney had been a theatre as good as any other to stage what Chris already considered could very well be the last act of their story.

He had, actually, been pretty sure of it, unconsciously infected by Tom's certainty that life always balances successes and defeats; his quotes were on the rise, more than he dared to hope, why would his personal life have to follow the same ascending trend?

Chris felt crushed, worn-out and angry, and it was not right, it was not right to feel that way right at the very moment of his triumph.   He felt like that for too long and it was all Tom’s fault, however, because since they wrapped Thor’s shooting, he had been forced to follow him between the continents and the time zones, because Tom was swallowed up by so many commitments and projects he seemed to lack time even for himself.  Relegating Chris to the purgatory of the secondary character, a shadow in the background.

_Chris didn’t choose this life in settling for minor roles. Chris didn’t choose Tom to share his space with a clear and empty absence._

Maybe they’d been stupid, but they had never talked about what they really felt for each other. Whenever words were slipping along the dangerous path of a confession – in any sense – Tom diverted the attention; a kiss, a laugh, whatever was needed to avoid hearing or saying words they couldn’t take back.  Chris knew he should have insisted, even forced Tom to speak, but in the end his courage had abandoned him every time, because not just Tom’s laugh was contagious, but somehow his insecurities were as well.

During the long months shooting in New Mexico, California, London, they’d slipped into a comfortable routine that he missed, like the family he would like to build one day.

When they started to see each other on a regular basis, to live together and sleep together for more than a week in a row, Chris began to think seriously about the future, because jumping beyond the aleatory fence of heterosexuality is not enough to forget dreams and plans of a lifetime. And Chris’ dreams were fed by a welcoming, loving family, Hollywood would never stain his desire to add new pieces to that colourful picture that was his home.

While they were shooting the story that wanted them as brothers despite everything, Chris got used to waking Tom up, or letting Tom wake him up with a kiss or a little nudge.   He got used to shared showers, making dinner for two - _thinking for two_ – then washing the dishes together, lying down under the same sheets, making love or just making out before falling asleep in each other’s arms.

Gosh, it was all so _normal_ that he felt like crying, because it should have been simple too, and it was not!

Tom wouldn’t follow him to his room, and Chris would be forced to end this relationship that never officially began.   _Terrified, because he really didn’t want to_.

The moon was high, the party was over, and Tom didn’t even spare a glance in his general direction when he left with his father and Luke, the disquieting publicist who always followed him like a shadow, and who probably knew what’s going on with the two of them by now. But Luke hadn’t commented on it, because British film industry doesn’t care so much about the sex life of the actors they represent.

But Chris’ agent was American, and he’d always told Chris to stay away from serious relationship before getting big, and, just in case, to keep certain _inclinations_ to himself, because people wouldn’t understand, and who he fucked would define the path of his career.

He had spent weeks hiding in a bungalow on Copacabana’s beach while he should be in LA _mingling_ with Hollywood environments, anyway.  Tom ran in the evenings, at dawn he met his capoeira instructor, because he couldn’t afford to burn his pale skin, Loki needed to be as white as a ghost. Chris, meanwhile, pumped up his muscles and surfed in the mornings, then they locked themselves up inside their room after lunch, because they couldn’t risk being caught together. It hadn’t been like Los Angeles, or even London when they hadn’t kissed yet, but their life had obviously already taken a different path than the one they had both imagined.

Chris could spend hours with his head on Tom’s increasingly skinny chest talking about nothing, Tom kept talking and talking without really telling anything about himself, so Chris became a virtuoso on reading between the lines and in making the right questions. Or wrong ones, it all depended on Tom’s reaction.

“You have piano fingers,” Chris told him one day, while they were lazing on the bed to escape the warmth of the Brazilian summer.

Chris liked Tom’s long, thin fingers, he liked them on his skin, and he liked to kiss them and play with them in those moments, while quietly whispering in the dim light.

"I've played the piano for years."

"Really? Do you still play? "

"Sometimes. My mother wanted a classical education for us. Emma had her singing lessons, for Sarah it was violin, and for me she chose the piano. "

"Looks like these aren’t fond memories? ..."

Tom was silent for a few moments, as if he wasn’t sure what he was about to say.

“Sarah got the worst, she actually burnt the violin down before leaving for college.  I never really thought about it, I like music.  And, anyway, I didn’t really get to whine.  We’re slipping down the _poor rich boy_ slope, ouch.”

Because Tom's family was affluent. And it looked like Tom felt as though he wasn’t allowed to complain about what that actually meant, because of course the silver spoon in his mouth wasn’t just prestigious school and voyages.

Chris sometimes felt as though Tom was always apologizing for something, above all for his father’s money.   He was proud of him - Hiddleston senior was a brilliant example of a self-made man – but ultimately that wealth just forced him to live someone else’s life; the only decisions he made for himself, were also the ones which catapulted him into a totally new lifestyle, resulting in his father’s unending disappointment and the frustration of uncertain finances.

"I liked tennis, but for my father it was too frivolous, one could not risk to be like Borg, you know? So, at Eton I was left forward in the rugby team. No rugby players ever end up on Sun's pages for something worse than a date with the Queen's far removed relative. "

Chris kept playing with his ghostly fingers, counting all the phalanxes and testing his knuckles until he learned all their frailty and texture.

"But yours really are performer’s fingers. They’re beautiful."

He never believed when someone praised him so he just pretended to accept compliments. Above all, he never believed it when Chris complimented him.

"One of the greatest pianist performers in the world is Hüseyin Sermet.   A virtuoso of Beethoven and Chopin, exceptional. "

"Never heard of him."

"He is among my mother's favourite performers. His fingers are short, almost stocky, like a potter’s ones. "

"And how could he play the piano with such hands?"

“Because you don’t need performer’s fingers to be a good pianist. They could help, but are not all there is, because true talent his beyond that, it is entirely another thing.  Think instead of the tragedy of having long fingers and little talent: all you can do is to keep trying, just that.”

Chris got up on an elbow to look at him better.

"In my opinion, it's like the hornet’s story.”

"What?"

“Yeah, that story according to which the hornet shouldn’t be able to fly because its wings are too small for its big and heavy weight. But the hornet doesn’t know it, so it flies anyway. It must be the same for that guy, he doesn’t care for his small fingers, he plays because he loves it, not because it’s natural for him.”

_As it is for me. I'm here with you because I can’t help it._

But Chris didn’t say the last part out loud. Maybe he should have. Thinking about that moment, maybe he should have told him.

Instead, he settled for just looking at Tom’s uncertain gaze turning into an incredulous smile, be contented at being kissed, to be held tight while Tom started to relax again in his arms.

Then Tom looked at him in _that_ way, and Chris was lost: Tom gazed at him as if Chris held the moon and all the stars in his hands, as if Chris was the most important, _precious_ person ever born. Who knows if Tom realized just how much – and how many times – he did it, if Tom knew how much that look meant for Chris.    

He didn’t think he could live without it anymore; because he went through the mirrors of those crystal-clear eyes to see himself enhanced and invincible.

 

The Sydney moon didn’t illuminate any privileged path, no white rabbits warren to use as shelter. Chris knew Tom wouldn’t come, it was useless to wait and lose himself in memories which, in that moment, felt like stones on a grave. Perhaps it had been for the best not talking about them with his family, after all.

Even if that little nosy parker that was his younger brother had guessed something for sure, Liam wasn’t just innocently teasing them, as Chris tried to convince Tom.  Liam was being a damn meddler when he insisted to follow them in their three-day road trip from New Mexico to Los Angeles, when he did the same on their trip from Sydney up through the Northern Territories and return: ten days in the Aussie desert unable to even sneak out with Tom.

But as that road trip to show Tom the places of his childhood had been just a frustrating exercise of self-control without reason, so their relationship seemed directed on the same depressing path: they were going nowhere. Tom didn’t want to go anywhere with him, and for Chris, the mere hypothesis of a kiss here and there, was not enough anymore.  Chris needed the comfort of crumpled sheets and two cups of coffee in the morning, freedom to throw the trash away and just be able to run away together at any chance without have to arrange meetings in advance.  Chris wanted something more, he wanted it all, but Tom was too scared to even think about it.

………………………

Chris was still staring at the moon outside the massive window of his hotel room when he heard the lock gently slid open and the door opened. He didn’t turn, though he knew it could only be Tom, and Chris was so relieved he was about to run to Tom and lift him on his shoulders before throwing him on the bed and undressing him with his teeth. But he was still angry with him, because he had waited for hours and the sun would soon rise, and technically Tom was due his aut aut and his fear of what was to come froze him.

Tom closed the door behind him carefully, but didn’t lock it. And that, for Chris, was the first distant alarm bell.  When he finally turned around to face Tom, his gaze was not returned; Tom was heavily leaning against the door frowning uneasily at his feet. His mouth was like a thin wound on his face.

Tom hadn’t changed his clothes, he hadn’t even loosened his tie. And Chris felt stupidly vulnerable, at a disadvantage, confronting a full dressed Tom while he was in his undershirt.

"When things change they can turn for the worst."

Tom wasn’t looking at him, his face hadn’t softened. Chris said nothing, for all the elation he’d felt just moments before was completely gone, and he just knew that they wouldn’t greet the incoming sunrise together.

Tom’s words had been a thin whisper, as he was talking to himself. And maybe it was really what he’d done, a catch phrase for no audience. Tom didn’t look sad, just forlorn, even a bit resigned.

Chris thought it was unfair that Tom gave him his best part just to take it away so soon. And he felt it again, the urge to scream and throw Tom out, to punch him even. He was so angry, Chris wanted to throw something at him, but he wasn’t a kid anymore, would not act like a kid anymore. And that evening, that movie, had changed everything for them.

But when Tom finally met his eyes, Chris didn’t feel so disadvantaged or exposed, or even so angry anymore.

Tom was looking at him from the opposite side of the room, and his gaze was just immensely tired.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a look on[ what](http://angeline-farewell.tumblr.com/post/163450185173/angeline-farewell-a-field-guide-to-getting) dear [ Debbie ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/) did for my story! Thank you so much hon! <3


	15. Fiftheen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter!  
> Bless Chris for existing. Tom will for sure. u.u

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter! As always, thank you so much to my English beta, [ Debo77 ](http://bubblebubble03.tumblr.com/)! All mistakes are still mine and none of what you'll read is her fault! Love u hun, it's been a pleasure and a privilege knowing you through this wonderful fandom! <3 <3 <3

 

When he was just a child, maybe seven or eight years old, Tom got lost.

 

Maybe not really “lost”, it’s an exaggeration since he’d found his way back to his parents on his own, but for a child so young, a grove of trees surrounded by silence and snow could turn into a bewitched wood.

 

They were on holiday in Scotland, like every other winter, and, as always, Norman’s mood swung between happiness and impatience. He loved the Highlands, but he didn’t like to be so near the small and impoverished hole of a town in which he was born.

 

Tom hadn’t turn eight yet, and he had lost his woolen hat while trying to run as fast as possible on the thick snow which had fallen during the previous night.   

The trees were huge and scary, the naked, twisted branches looked ready to seize him. When he finally reached his family again, he hid his face in his mother’s coat, crying.    

 

He’d been away no more than ten or fifteen minutes, but for a child so young those moments felt like hours of terror. So, his mother decided to cut their walk in the woods short and return to the cabin they had rented.

 

“For God’s sake! He’s still crying! Why! Nothing happened!”

 

Tom’s parents were chatting in the small kitchen while Sarah and Tom were on the couch waiting for the promised hot chocolate and marshmallows, Emma was just three years old and she was too focused on chewing on his favourite stuffed toys ear to take notes of the change of scenery and elevating tension.  They were whispering, but the room was too small for them to gain any real intimacy.  


"Norman, he got lost, he's just a child ..."

 

“You coddle him too much, that’s why he’s still crying like a tit.”

 

" _Norman_!"

 

"It's ridiculous, we didn’t even notice he was gone."

 

When his mother gave them the promised mugs of chocolate, Tom had already stopped crying, and wasn’t complaining anymore. 

 

About anything.  

 

Big blue eyes wide and still and holding in any tears.

 

More than twenty years had passed since that trip that was likely just the first brick in the wall that his parents were building between them. Or perhaps, it was the first one Tom noticed.  But for this son, that brick made very little difference, certainly none at all when the wall grew too discretely to be seen past a creeping tension hidden amongst days too full of obligations.

 

……………………………………

 

Tom had already been in love.

 

Charlie always teased him about his bizarre penchant for romance, saying he seemed more in love with  _love_  than the girls he was with. And when Tom thought about love he thought about Shakespeare, but he hated Romeo and Juliet, Tom was more interested in the family-saga subplot and the re-enactment of a fictional renaissance than in the affair of two children playing with ornithology and definitions. The love of a day, what kind of love could be?  What meaning could it hold beyond being an idea carved on a grave?  He was certain Romeo and Juliet would never stand the test of time and everyday life. Just like Tom’s parents.

 

Chris was looking at him, through hooded eyes, from the other side of the room. Illuminated by the low light of the southern stars, and all Tom could think was that Chris was being unfair, because he had undressed before Tom was able to find a minute to even loosen his tie.

 

Tom tried to force himself to not go – no,  _run_  – to him before dawn, before the countdown to something they still didn’t have the courage to call  _us_  would end.    

 

But in the end he could not. Not even out of spite for what his dignity felt like a coercion, because Tom couldn’t turn off that little petulant voice in his head telling him that it would be disastrous to deny himself and wrong to refuse.  

 

Pleasing everyone had been, for a long time, the only way he knew to exist in the eyes of others.

 

Chris was one of the few people who had seen him lose control. Really lose it, no alcohol or stress, or sex to use as alibis, just because life sometimes is too much that you have no choice but to take a break from yourself. 

 

Tom remembered every one of the many small episodes that he had let himself, unwittingly, be silly in front of Chris, he had re-enacted them in his head a thousand times, correcting all the inadequacies, to return to the immaculate perfection of the right reaction, word, act.  But Tom remembered even better the lovely fingers that softened the worry that wrinkled his forehead, the soft lips on his eyelids, forcing him to indulge in a much-needed sleep.

 

Chris didn’t care for perfection and never asked for it. He never expected Tom to always say yes, he didn’t need Tom to be compliant to want him. Chris spied on all Tom’s worst sides, and embraced them all.

 

Tom kept saying to himself that they weren’t together, that maybe they were friends, or just colleagues who worked especially well together.  Even when they woke up naked in each other arms and amongst stained sheets that needed to be changed.

 

He tried not to think about those moments when they separated, he needed to concentrate on work, on his life, on his future.   Chris no longer used singular when he thought about the future.  


"When things change they can even turn for the worst."

 

Tom knew he’d said the wrong thing the moment it left his lips, but he was too tired to think clearly. His tie felt like a noose around his neck, the jacket was a straitjacket. Tom should have changed, undressed just as Chris has done, he should have run straight to Chris and let him strip him of his clothes.

 

Instead, Tom walked his father to his room and things had gone to shit.

 

Tom didn’t like Chris’ look, but the worst part was that he knew he deserved it.

Chris was about to break up with him. They weren’t together, but Chris would leave him, and Tom would like to be able to laugh at that ridiculous situation, at his unreasonable feelings.

Tom didn’t want to break up, he wanted to be embraced by Chris but didn’t know how to ask for it, he didn’t want to be the vulnerable one again, to be the one to give in and run to Chris after an unreasonable  _argument_. A  _moral_ argument.

 

_When things change they can even turn for the worst._

 

That’s what he told him, but Tom wasn’t sure what he meant, he wasn’t sure he had spoken with his own voice.

 

"So, what, do we leave things as they are?"

 

He was startled at the sound of Chris’ voice, the silence had been so perfect the room felt almost empty; outside the window the world had not yet awakened, the hallway behind the closed door was deserted.

 

"But how are things, Tom? At this point I don’t know anymore. Do we leave everything as it was in London? Or in Albuquerque, Rio? How? I'm so tired of following you around."  


"Nobody asked you to do it!"

 

Those words came out in an almost vicious hiss which surprised Tom himself. He didn’t mean to say such words, but he couldn’t take them back out. He wasn’t able to look at Chris’ expression and for the first time he was glad of it. He didn’t like the disbelieving laugh that echoed his words.

 

"Seriously? Nobody ever ... Seriously!? That's all? Aren’t you incredible, are we really having this argument? "

 

" _You_  asked me to come."

 

"Of course! But not so you can break up with me just because you're too scared to be honest!"  


"That's not what it is!"

 

"Is it about your father? Are we  really here because you don’t want to tell him about us?   Don’t do it, then! "

 

And it was Tom's turn to laugh, leaving him aloof and angry.

 

_When things change they can certainly alter for the worst._

 

They were not his words, Norman pronounced them just a few hours before. Tom laughed at the irony of the situation that Chris could not grasp, he laughed at himself for he’d never felt so silly, not even wearing fake, costume armour.

 

He was laughing but he felt like crying, because his father’s words were still echoing in his ears like a death knell.

 

Norman had always had the special gift to make you constantly feel like a zero, even after a degree from a prestigious university, or at the threshold of a coveted marriage.

 

 _At least you give up everything for a good catch_ , and Sarah had almost cancelled the engagement with the shame of looking like a kept woman in their father’s eyes.

 

"Why are you here?"

 

Chris brought him back to the present – and its precarious balance – with an inconvenient and far too reasonable question. Tom didn’t want to answer him, or be reasonable, but what choice did he have?

 

"It's clear we're not going anywhere, and it's almost dawn. I would have understood it anyway".

 

Tom sighed deeply. A heavy and wet sigh. He would never have thought that it would be so difficult to explain himself, not with Chris, who had always been able to strip him of all his masks with his gaze.   

 

The problem was Tom didn’t know what he really wanted; put a full stop, open a bracket, just throw the punctuation out of the window?   But Chris was tired, and he was right.  Tom was not worth it.

 

"I was with my father."

 

“…”

 

"To verbatim quote him, my timing reflects my inability to grow up. Again."

 

Tom was smiling but wasn’t looking up at him, and this, Chris knew, meant Tom wasn’t telling him everything.  Tom wasn’t Loki and he wasn’t very good at lying, not even by omission.

 

Tom was still leaning against the door, like a trapped animal. Chris tried to put aside his disappointment and anger to look more carefully at him, studying Tom’s tense posture, fossilized in a defeated stance.

 

In that moment Tom looked a lot younger than his almost thirty years, a lost child trapped between Earth and Neverland. And Tom could say the similitude imprecise, but Chris always preferred the sweetness of the Disney movie to Barrie’s nebulous allegories.  And so he really wished the Crocodile would eat Captain Hook, because Time, alone, never solved anything.

 

Chris covered the distance between them with slow, quiet steps.

 

Hopefully, the low light coated the slight tremor of his fingers as he started to loosen the knot of Tom’s tie.

 

Tom didn’t move a muscle.

 

Chris wondered what to do, what Tom wanted to do.

 

Sex would have been a good diversion, a distraction already proven by too many conversations left undone and lost between wet and crumpled sheets, but Chris no longer wanted to lose the thread.

 

"What are you so afraid of?"

 

If they had not been so close, Chris would have feared Tom hadn’t heard him.

 

Sometimes he was afraid of the power Tom had over him, without realising; he could make him feel top of the world, coveted and important; And simultaneously, last of the beggars looking for some attention, weak and vulnerable, because he never knew if Tom's eyes would be the kiss or salt on the wound.

And in those moments Chris understood darling Freddie and his years of painful hopes he had stubbornly spent loving Tom, unrequited.   Chris understood why Freddie still hated him a little, despite the life he was now building on the rubble of his broken heart with Bran.

 

They were happy, Chris knew it. They were living together, riding together the waves of any sea they decided to face, Freddie turn his soft-hearted broker in the muse of his graduation thesis and the perfect model for a sea sport line of an underground label, his first paid job. They were opposite worlds, two parallels meant to meet not even at infinity, and yet they became an addition.

 

The perfect wave.

 

_But aren’t we also?  Are we not the ocean and the wind that ripples its surface?   How can it not work?  We are opposite and equals._

 

"You do not want to talk about it.”

 

A statement more than a question, Chris already knew the answer, but was afraid to try to predict the consequences.

 

Tom shook his head slowly and frowned.

 

 "Would it make any difference?"

 

"It depends on what you want.  What do you want?"

 

Tom moaned deeply, but he did finally pull himself off the door, though only to lean against Chris.

 

"I thought I really knew."

 

Chris sighed too, he didn’t know if it was resigned or relieved, but he didn’t comment, just tightened his arms around Tom and lead him slowly towards the bed.

 

"I know it's nearly morning, but if we lie down for a few minutes, nobody will notice."

 

Tom didn’t look at Chris, he stared at the window and the shaded curtains, instead, at the purplish-blue shadow stretching on the floor.

 

"It’s not daylight yet, let’s go to your flat. I need more than a few minutes"

 

And it was true, those few minutes became hours.

 

No one would look for them, they mumbled some excuses about a tour around the city, a walk on the beach. And Chris’ house was out of the way enough to give them a pretence of anonymity and intimacy. No one commented, not even who knew – or suspected – about them.

 

They didn’t speak on the way, and Chris didn’t know whether to be disappointed or grateful for that –  _likely_  – farewell to be made of gestures alone; he didn’t know if he could bear the sound of Tom’s voice.

They made love with their eyes wide open for the first time since the beginning of their relationship, for the first time they didn’t stop looking at each other while moving effortlessly together, as if seeking each other with their hands alone wasn’t enough anymore.

 

The sun was high in the sky, filling their small room with light. The new day had come, and no one else could see them.

 

"Are we making up or is this a farewell?" 

 

Chris couldn’t help himself, he needed to know.  His face was still buried in Tom’s nape while trying to regain his breath.

 

The answer was an exhausted laugh muffled by the pillow.  

 

"You really have a talent for ill-timed questions, has anyone ever told you?"

 

Silence fell again, but they didn’t move despite the uncomfortable position; they tried to normalize their breaths and heartbeats, rearrange their thoughts.

 

Chris didn’t want to move, or talk.  He remembered very well what Tom was talking about, he remembered that night in a small shower box in a LA flat, two inexperienced lovers and young actors with little hopes of success. A whole life had seemed to have passed since that night, where everything should have been more complicated, but was incredibly easier instead.

 

"Our careers could end down the pipes if someone saw us now."

 

"I know."

 

In the end Tom pushed him away with a sigh. He perfunctorily cleaned himself up, then lay down again on his back, turning his head to look at Chris. Chris hoped his own expression would mirror the mask of absolute neutrality of Tom’s one. He was glad they didn’t use condoms anymore, disposal would be a distraction he couldn’t afford.  As, in that moment, Tom’s eyes were the salt on the wound, and Chris didn’t think he deserved it.

 

Because he was just in love with Tom, and –  _whatever that daft, fucking, Englishman wanted to believe_  – it hadn’t been a simple thing to come to terms with for Chris either.

 

Tom begun tracing the shape of Chris face with his fingers, a light, curious touch.  _I'm not the one who changed the most_ , Chris would like to tell him, but those fingers on his lips stole all his words once again.

 

"Would it make a difference?"

 

And it was Chris’ turn to snort, fazed.

 

"Yes, it would, don’t pretend you don’t understand."

 

He was going to get up, to get away from Tom, but he changed his mind once again, choosing to impose himself on Tom instead: with Tom, timing was all, moving fast enough would mean he was able to see beneath his mask.

 

Chris couldn’t afford vague answers anymore, he wanted Tom to look him in the eyes while saying good-bye once and for all. 

 

Tom had lost a lot of weight. Ken had forced him to smooth his body like a dagger for the movie, and he hadn’t been able to gain it again afterwards. Running around the world didn’t help. Chris realized that his own weight loss wasn’t enough to balance their bodies; he was still a lot more imposing than Tom, who stiffened under him, but Chris didn’t want to give him time to toss off an excuse.

 

"Now that your father has pontificated, what else is going on?"

 

They were about to fight; that’s it, it wouldn’t be as before, back in Chris’ hotel room, it would be definitive.  But if they were to ends things, Chris wanted it to be final, he didn’t want to remain friends, he knew he couldn’t bear it.   And who cares for the next jobs scheduled, they were actors, they could pretend to still get along.

 

Tom was trying to push him away, but didn’t say anything, and Chris didn’t allow him to move further. Just the uneven rhythm of Tom’s breath suggested his mood. He was so stubborn Chris wanted to slap some sense in him, he wanted to crawl under his skin and made love again with closed eyes, he didn’t want to be afraid of losing him anymore. And he wanted to know why their compass stopped working just when he thought they were so close to their goal.

 

"Why am I no longer enough?"

 

Tom looked at him aghast. He diverted his eyes, suddenly tired again, his body felt as if it was deflating under Chris’.  Who felt like he was coming apart at the seams before Tom, piece by piece, to the bones.  

Chris rolled away on his side, leaving Tom free to move, to leave if he wanted to, he didn’t know what to do, what to say to make Tom listen to him, to make him speak. _Maybe it wasn’t worth it?_  

 

"How do you think it will end? Can you really see a happy ending? "

 

Tom spoke after a silence so perfect it seemed like a full stop. He wasn’t looking at Chris, he was staring at the ceiling with a blank face.

 

"I thought you were the optimist between the two of us."

 

"Maybe it's better to be a realist every now and then."

 

Chris had to bite his tongue to avoid biting him instead, he had to swallow what he was about to say, because Tom would surely mistake his words for contempt, not acknowledging the prayer concealed behind them:  _grow up, instead, grow up and built a new reality for yourself_.

 

Instead Chris took a deep breath and attempted a diplomatic reply, trying not to think about his frustration and the absurdity of the situation.

 

"Your Dad is not always right, you've already proved him wrong."

 

Or maybe not.

 

Chris felt like laughing, because they weren’t touching or looking at one another, but he knew that Tom had stiffened, that he had tightened his lips, and Chris knew it because – whatever Tom wanted to believe – they had been together for three years, and it had been important.  It  _was_  still important.

 

"You don’t know what you're talking about."

 

“He didn’t think you could make it to Pembroke, or that you could ever be a successful actor, and look at you now! You speak Ancient Greek and Woody Allen hired you without a bloody audition!”

 

Tom jolted up, and Chris almost feared he’d gone too far. He wouldn’t apologize, but he didn’t want Tom to leave.

 

Tom sat on the edge of the bed, giving Chris a perfect visual of his back. Chris could follow the arc of his spine, joining with an imaginary line all the protruding points on his vertebrae, trying not to be distracted by the marks he had left himself, with his teeth, fingers, mouth.

 

"And do you think it's important?"

 

Tom slid his fingers between his still dark and too long locks, so different from the little indomitable curls he had the day they met. Curls Chris unfolded between his fingers night after night before Tom was forced to dye them black and smooth them. Chris loved those curls, but that’s one of the many things he had never said out loud.

 

"Why shouldn’t it be?"

 

"I don’t know!"

 

Tom stood up, nudity had never really bothered him, not even when they didn’t share a bed. He walked the small space of the room in nervous steps, circling around like a caged animal.  The words seemingly stuck in his throat.

 

“I don’t know why it’s not important, but why it should be! And why should it last, what can I give you more than anyone else? Come on, look at me!”

 

“I’m looking at - ”

 

“I’m nothing special. I’m no better than anyone. Why should it last?”

 

It wasn’t immediately clear if Tom was talking about his career, their relationship, or his life in general. Either way, it wasn’t going good.

 

“Oh come on, just stop it!”

 

“What..?”

 

“Stop talking crap, stop with all this bullshit. We’re dancing around it from months and I’m exhausted. If you haven’t noticed, we’ve been fucking for three years, and I don’t know what that means for you, but seeing we’re exclusive at all, that means we are an item in my book.   From three years, understand? I’ve had few relationships lasting so long.”

 

“I don’t…”

 

“I’m not finished.  I dunno what crawled up your father’s arse and died, but trying to live and pandering to his expectations will never do you any good, you wouldn’t be where you are now if you had!    And you even try to say anything otherwise and I’ll bite you, and it won’t be for pleasure this time!”

 

“…”             

 

“I don’t know how things will develop, Tom, but neither do you. I would really like to find out though. So, I’m asking you again; what do you want?”

 

“…”

 

“…”

 

"And if things don’t work, what will we do?"

 

"Well, we will respond. We know what we want, Tom, we know all that we can or cannot do.  

And please don’t think that I haven’t considered the consequences.  Don’t believe I'm not afraid to face my own father, or my brothers".

 

"I know."

 

They were sitting side by side again, thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder. The distance between their bodies was once again almost not existent, and Chris couldn’t wait to cancel it altogether.

 

Tom’s breathing was calmer now, his posture more relaxed.  Chris didn’t know how long the calm sea would last, but Chris was a surfer, he knew waves and winds, and as much as he enjoyed the serenity of the bay, he preferred the stormy sea, with its waves and its whirlwinds. Just like Tom was.

 

“I feel lost. I know what I want and what I want to do, but I feel lost.”

 

Tom linked their fingers, tight, and Chris couldn’t help a sigh of relief.

 

“We are in this together. Maybe it won’t be so bad to get lost together, don’t you think?”

 

Chris smiled.  Tom didn’t answer, but there was no need. 

 

He kissed Chris who was guiding him to lie down again, without breaking the kiss.

 

They needed a shower, but they were in no rush, not anymore. They took their time, once again; if the first time had been all about  _take_ , fearing that could be their last time together, now it was all about  _give_. Care, closeness, love.

 

When they finally left the house, their bodies still carried all the marks of what they had shared, but nobody would see, no one would notice.  For three years they had loved each other in plain sight but hidden by anonymity, they would learn to be invisible with flashes aimed at them like rifles. Together.

 

 

 

 

END.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the END. I would like to thank everyone who followed me (and Debbie, bless her) through the end of this journey. Thank you so much to everyone!


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